Evening Sun
by naxmachine
Summary: Aubrey Posen is the evening sun: lovely, fiery, distant, unattainable. Nothing good could ever come out of wanting her. But she persisted in Beca's mind like an endless, enticing summer, and maybe, just this once, Beca longed to burn.
1. Nice Dream

**Um, I'll just leave this here.**

* * *

In her right state of mind, nothing would have attracted Beca to the haughty, almost-aristocratic Aubrey Danielle Posen. Sure, the girl was beautiful. She was popular even outside Barden, not to mention highly intelligent. She'd look good both in color and black-and-white – Beca's own warped scale of how attractive women usually are. With Aubrey, it wasn't at all hard to imagine her in high-fashion glossy magazines wearing Giorgio Armani power suits and five-inch Louboutin pumps.

But Beca went out of her way to avoid shiny beautiful people. Except for Chloe Beale, who pouted and sweet-talked her way into Beca's life, and Stacie Conrad, who simply used boobs, Beca had been mostly successful in fending them off during her time at Barden. They often brought unwanted attention and trouble (more often than not). Beca had one goal – to leave for LA by the end of the year – which she certainly wasn't going to achieve by getting into romantic entanglements.

And a romantic entanglement with Aubrey was something that never, ever crossed her mind. She understood having chemistry with Chloe, maybe even Jesse (with one catch: he was a guy). But Aubrey was bossy and frustrating and every encounter with her left Beca with a migraine. The blonde's attitude towards Beca was downright condescending, and her own indifference of it during a capella practice only served to make Aubrey extra vindictive. They argued over everything. Aubrey took it upon herself to make the three-hour rehearsals stressful for everyone, particularly Beca, and it took all of Beca's patience sometimes not to simply walk up and slap her in the face.

The two of them had nothing in common. It simply wasn't going to happen.

* * *

Or so Beca thought until one Friday six years ago, when Aubrey Posen, to her, ceased to be that overbearing captain with that constantly-forced smile on her face and simply became _the girl._

It was three days before a capella finals. The Bellas' set was perfect. Still, Aubrey insisted on one last meeting with her co-captains at Chloe and Aubrey's off-campus apartment. And here was Beca on the aforementioned meeting, seated on the couch, watching Aubrey pace back and forth ranting trivialities for the last ten minutes. Chloe – who was often very good at assuring Aubrey there was nothing to worry about – was nowhere in sight, having rushed off to the hospital because her boyfriend Tom twisted his ankle at soccer.

The air was heavy and humid. Beca took off her jacket and glanced at the window. The skies were too dark for six in the evening, and there was that musky scent in the breeze that usually preceded rain. Beca felt the headache beginning at the back of her head; she closed her eyes and leaned back.

"Well?" Aubrey demanded sharply, jolting Beca out of her daze. "What do you think?"

"Does it actually matter?"

Aubrey's jaw went rigid, but she kept quiet. Beca immediately felt guilty for her snide remark, especially because the blonde obviously made an effort to be civil towards her in the past few days. "Sorry. I just think the Bellas are already nailing this, okay? All we have to do is get on that stage and deliver. And my head hurts. Can I please just –"

She was suddenly cut off by a muted ringing sound. Aubrey, with an unreadable expression, held up one perfectly-manicured hand and picked up her phone from the coffee table with the other. "Sir."

Beca, not wanting to seem like she was eavesdropping, instead found herself studying the other person. Even while on the phone Aubrey's posture was ramrod straight. Not one curl of her blonde hair was out of its tight bun. Her blue blouse and gray pencil skirt fit her like a glove. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground, positioned like she was about to address a crowd. Aubrey listened intently to the voice on the other side, eyes trained on the view outside the window, her patrician features not revealing anything.

Finally Aubrey spoke, her enunciation not even slipping one bit.

"Stop. I understand that you cannot come to the finals. I would also understand if you cannot come to my graduation. I understand that being my father is the least of your priorities. And it's about time you relinquish this priority altogether. I do not wish to see you any longer."

And just like that, Aubrey ended the call, set the phone back on the coffee table, and cut off her father.

Beca sat still, shocked at the magnitude of the situation, shocked that Aubrey came to such a momentous decision with just her around, shocked that the blonde was still standing like she didn't just close the door on someone so significant.

"Dude, did you just..."

But the blonde was eerily calm. She looked down at Beca and only her hazel-green eyes, so severe ten minutes ago and now so beaten, betrayed her inner turmoil. "You can leave."

Beca nodded, her throat dry. She stood up and started for the hallway, but, at the last minute, turned towards the kitchen. Beca was not heartless. Most of the time she defused situations with a sarcastic joke, but she knew when to show compassion. Bella movie marathons and Chloe's birthday party at the apartment had taught her where the liquor was kept; sure enough, she struck gold at the top shelf nearest the fridge, finding an assortment of cans and bottles.

She'd never seen Aubrey drink beer. She'd never seen Aubrey drink any alcohol, in fact. She finally decided on a tall bottle of red wine at the very back, retrieved two glasses, and returned to the living room. Aubrey was still facing the window, her back on Beca, not having moved an inch.

"I asked you to leave."

Beca wordlessly uncorked the bottle. Aubrey finally looked around at the sound. She accepted the glass of wine Beca offered with no change in her empty expression, swirled and inhaled the crimson contents, and took a sip.

"Thought I lost this bottle when we moved here. It's a 2007 Taylor Fladgate – good port."

"And you're speaking gibberish, as usual."

Aubrey put on the smallest of smiles, but quickly composed herself. "You're right. It's just wine." She drained the rest, gestured at Beca to sit on one end the couch, and settled on the other end. Beca filled their glasses again; Aubrey did not object. The second glass went down as fast as the first, and soon enough, Aubrey was pouring the wine herself. Beca did not dare disturb the still atmosphere with words. It was the first time the two of them had nothing to say to each other. But Beca wanted so much to say something, _anything,_ which might make the other person stop systematically emptying the bottle.

"Would you like me to call anyone?" she finally offered, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Chloe's –"

"No."

The short reply made Beca raise one eyebrow, but she didn't push it. If Aubrey Posen wanted to spend her bloody Friday evening getting drunk, then so be it; the woman always had her priorities straight, and Beca let her worries rest with the thought that Aubrey probably knew what she was doing. Time stretched out in silence. Beca held her own untouched glass and made no effort to drink. She never liked wine, although she was relieved to have chosen right for Aubrey.

After her fifth glass, Aubrey pulled off her stilettos with the same approach she applied to planning her daily schedule: quiet and precise, not wasting any more time or movement than she has to. The pearl earrings and gold watch followed, Aubrey setting them on the coffee table with a quiet _clink_. Pins and a black hair tie later joined the assortment on the table. Beca looked up in time to see Aubrey running a hand through her blonde hair, letting the curls cascade down. And then Aubrey picked up the bottle of wine and went for her sixth glass.

Aubrey was beautiful. She always had been, but not until now, with that far-off look in her green eyes and the loose halo of blonde hair carelessly strewn to her shoulders, did Beca become painfully aware of that fact. With nothing better to do Beca stared, absorbing the other's presence – until she realized Aubrey's now-luminous eyes were gazing back, dusk had fallen, and, despite the smell of wet grass and dry earth that permeated the dark apartment, the rain never came.

The bottle of wine sat empty on the table. Time slipped by so fast.

Beca made to stand up, intending to turn on the lights. But Aubrey reached out, grasped Beca's wrist – her hand was cold – and shook her head no. So Beca sat back down, and Aubrey never took off her hand, although there was still a three-foot gap between the two of them that Beca suddenly longed to close.

"Beca?" Aubrey said, out of the blue, sounding like an afterthought. Beca glanced in her direction. Her eyes having already adjusted to the dark, she could see Aubrey looking expectantly at her.

"Yeah?"

"I might be drunk," Aubrey said in a soft voice, and Beca noticed she was starting to slur her words. "It's too quiet. Can you do something about it?"

"Sure," Beca immediately conceded, taking out her iPod and welcoming the distraction. She was starting to feel nervous, and no way was she going to be nervous around one Aubrey Posen. She decided to humor the blonde until Chloe got back. After all, Aubrey singlehandedly polished off a huge bottle of wine and probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. "What would the lady like?"

"Something apt," Aubrey replied, almost a sigh, sounding so vulnerable and tired. Beca wanted so badly to do something about it. At the same time her mind screamed to just leave Aubrey alone, because all the telltale signs of trouble were there: the shiny beautiful woman, the darkness, the proximity, and now the music. At the last moment Beca's good heart won out. She keyed in the first song that came to mind, pressed play, and tossed the gadget on the coffee table.

Aubrey loosened her hand on Beca's wrist, seemingly absorbed in the guitar strains resounding in the entire living room. Beca breathed out a sigh of relief – maybe even regret – at the loss of contact.

"What is this song?"

"Nice Dream by Radiohead. You like it?"

"Yes."

Beca thought she saw Aubrey smile, and the brief moment made her feel like she did something right. But that didn't prepare her for what Aubrey did next: she slipped her hand in Beca's, stood up, and yanked the brunette to an upright position so swiftly and fluidly that Beca couldn't help but marvel at Aubrey's upper body strength.

"Okay, you're surprisingly strong for a drunk –"

"I'm surprised you actually have a song in your phone not produced by robots. We might as well dance."

Beca couldn't see the correlation between the two statements, but attributed it to the blonde being drunk. Beca wanted to say no; she was too scared Aubrey might think, once she was sober, that she had been taken advantage of. But when Aubrey slipped her arms around her neck, buried her face in Beca's brown hair, and started to sob as she steered both of them to the music, Beca knew the time for saying no was long past. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, she thought, as she gingerly rubbed Aubrey's back. The action offered neither of them comfort and Beca knew it.

But she kept on, dutifully moving her feet, running her hand gently through the blonde curls. She had always been too chivalrous for her own good. She encircled Aubrey's waist with her other arm and let everything melt away: waiting for Chloe, making mixes, dropping by her father's office, leaving for LA. There was only a dark living room. A dance with a girl who never missed a step even as her tears dampened Beca's neck. The sharp smell of rain now mingled with Aubrey's lavender perfume.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Aubrey finally lifted her head and wiped the wet streaks on her face with the back of one hand. Beca wondered if she should rub off the few mascara smudges, but decided against it. To do that, she would have to touch Aubrey's face. And she was too beautiful.

"Sorry," Aubrey mumbled with a sniff. They were still pressed against each other, swaying to a lulling rhythm. "You can go. I've already taken so much of your time –"

"It's okay," Beca quickly assured her, amazed that the blonde can still form whole sentences. If she had drunk a bottle of wine she would have been out cold by now. "Besides, I got you drunk. The least I can do is..."

"...put me to bed?" Aubrey supplied helpfully, saying the words Beca didn't want to say in fear that it would be too close for comfort. "I've had enough of today, Beca. Just help me find my bedroom –" she stifled a smile – "and I'll be out of your hair."

So Beca took Aubrey's hand and lead her to her room, despite the darkness and the blonde not being able to walk straight. It was the first time Beca had ever been there. She quickly opened the bedside lamp, refusing to look around. _Bedroom _was another telltale sign of trouble, and _bedroom with hot drunk girl_ even worse. Aubrey collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, pulling the covers to her chest. Beca hovered at the foot of the bed awkwardly.

"Now go." Aubrey's voice came out in a muffled gurgle.

"But you're still crying."

"It's...it's not something you can fix."

Beca sighed. "Right. Um...see you around."

Aubrey only nodded, and Beca could hear quiet sobs. Alarms were going off in her head. Damn it, she thought, I should leave. _Now_.

"I'm staying."

Damn it, what happened to _I should leave? _By the orange glow of the night light, Aubrey's eyes were shiny dark orbs fixed on Beca.

"I'm staying. And if it's okay with you, I'm going to climb into bed and hold you and touch your hair because..." Beca thought it sounded lame, but she continued. "If Chloe was here, she'd do the same thing."

Aubrey looked at her for a long time. Long enough, at least, for Beca to seriously consider just running off. Just when Beca forced her feet towards the door, the blonde finally moved to lift the covers.

"Okay."

So Beca climbed into bed and did just as she said – spooned Aubrey and stroked the pale locks of hair with her free hand. Aubrey's muscles felt tense, but it was nothing compared to Beca's heart banging on her ribs. Why she was so nervous, she couldn't understand. She's held a few girl friends before. She'd seen people cry. She knew people who cried themselves to sleep. But Aubrey felt different, like she was made to fit in her arms. The girl smelled so nice and her skin was hot against hers and –

And they hated each other. That was it. They never really got along well and tomorrow everything would be back to normal.

But for now, she just continued what she was doing until Aubrey gradually relaxed. Even after the blonde's sobs turned to gentle breathing, Beca, with a dull, odd ache in her heart, couldn't stop running her fingers through her hair.

* * *

A sharp click somewhere above her woke Beca from a dreamless sleep. She lifted her head. It was morning, maybe six or seven, and Chloe Beale was hovering over them with her phone and a grin.

"What the hell?" Beca whispered, before noticing that Aubrey had, at some point last night, turned around and wrapped herself around Beca. The blonde slept peacefully. "Don't you dare post this shit online, Beale."

"But it's too cute." Chloe pouted and did the usual Disney eyes routine. "Oooh, this is exactly where my imagination went when Aubrey wasn't answering her phone last night –"

Beca shook her head. "Her dad called, and she practically told him she never wanted to see him again."

Chloe's eyes went round. "What?!"

"Yeah, and Aubrey didn't want me to call anyone, so we basically did the sad times montage movie trope while I fervently prayed that you come home." The last part wasn't entirely true, but Chloe didn't need to know that.

"Aww, poor Bree." Chloe looked worried, as she reached out and cupped the blonde's face. "Though personally, I think it's good for her. Her dad is constantly dragging her down...wait. Did you kiss?"

"No! Beale, seriously?" Beca didn't want to leave the cozy bed just yet, but Chloe's mischievous smirk was starting to be too much for her to handle. She moved Aubrey's arms gently off her and got up, careful not to make any sudden movements. "How's Tom?"

Chloe smiled wearily. "He'll be fine. Some dick from the opposing team tackled him and he pulled a tendon. He didn't want to be confined overnight even though the doctor advised it, but I managed to change his mind."

"Good for him." Beca finished lacing up her boots and stood. "Well, the captain's all yours."

"Not if you kissed her." Chloe winked and Beca rolled her eyes. But the next moment, the redhead pulled her into a hug. "Thanks for staying with her, Becs."

Beca only smiled and took one last look at the girl on the bed.

* * *

Very few people knew how Beca and Stacie became such good friends (maybe just Chloe and Cynthia Rose, in fact). It began when Stacie approached Beca one day after practice with a "Would you like to sleep with me?" and a clever thrust of her barely-covered breasts right in Beca's face. Chloe and Cynthia Rose were seated on the bleachers nearest them; Chloe's jaw dropped and Cynthia Rose actually choked on her water. But Beca took one look at Stacie's boobs, coolly replied, "Not even if you bathe in detergent", and the two of them had been fast friends since.

So it wasn't at all strange when, later that day, Beca found herself beneath the window of Stacie's dorm. After Beca threw a handful of pebbles, the tall girl finally looked out.

"Ah, if it isn't my lezza lover!" Stacie hollered. "Come on up, my little va-genius."

Beca entered the dorm, trying to ignore the passing college kids who heard Stacie laughing behind her. Stacie grabbed her as soon as she appeared at the doorway of her room.

"They all come to Stacie Conrad in the end," she greeted in a faux-seductive voice.

Beca wriggled out of her arms with a snort. "You have to stop calling me a va-genius or whatever. You don't even know if that's true."

"If I ambush you naked, I'll know."

"Chloe already did that, and she doesn't know either." Beca was wearing a frown instead of her usual smirk, and Stacie quickly noticed. She took out a couple of plastic tumblers from her fridge and handed one to Beca.

"Dude, it's 2 pm."

"If anyone asks, it's cranberry juice." Stacie sipped, and then grimaced. "Mmm. Color is dubious, bouquet is repulsing. Acidity can melt off your face. Finish is like a fake orgasm. Consider yourself warned."

The DJ, despite her overcast mood, couldn't help but chuckle a little at that.

"So, you slept with Aubrey?"

Beca managed to swallow a couple gulps of cheap vodka and juice before Stacie's question had her choking. "No! Jeez, did Chloe post that damn photo after all?"

"How can you not sleep with a hot blonde who's canoodling dreamily with your tits? That was _Aubrey!_ She's destined for greatness, for fuck's sake. Great looks. Great boobs. And great tongue action." Stacie flicked her tongue quickly and lewdly while gesturing to her lower parts, and Beca froze.

"YOU SLEPT WITH HER?!"

"Yeah, sure. She's lonely as fuck, dude. It was easy."

"You..." Beca growled, still dazed with the fact that Aubrey and Stacie had actually slept together and that Stacie actually found the most puzzling girl in the world _easy_. "Again, _you slept with her?! _When? Where? _How?_"

"I used the most effective line in the world –"

" 'Would you like to sleep with me'?! Fucking hell!"

"Why are you so angry? You like her, don't you?"

"No, I don't! Stacie, I just think you –" At a loss for words, Beca chugged the remains of her vile drink and, fueled by the liquor burning her throat, hurled the tumbler towards the floor in fury. "You slut!"

"Well, ouch!" Stacie stood up and crossed her arms disapprovingly at Beca. "You're the first person to ever call me that!" Then she grinned impishly. "To my face, at least. Okay, psycho, calm down. I lied."

Beca dropped the tumbler lid she also intended to throw. "_What?"_

"Yeah, I lied. I fed Aubrey the 'would you like to sleep with me' line and she slapped me."

Beca stared at Stacie for a second, and then laughed in relief. "Does that line ever work on anyone?"

"With the right amount of alcohol, sure. So, you like Aubrey?"

"No."

Stacie raised an eyebrow. "So why did you passionately call me a slut a while ago?"

"Sorry," Beca sincerely apologized. "I was mad earlier because..." She seriously didn't think she liked Aubrey, although she really did visit Stacie to talk about her. How she would have started _that _conversation, though, she had no idea. "I thought you don't do friends," she finished. Terrible lie, but it was the best she can come up with.

"_You _don't do friends. Me, I like to know my friends _better_." Stacie grinned wolfishly and evaded Beca's kick. "Look, there's nothing wrong with admitting you like The Captain. This is college. We're supposed to bang every hot person out there. Besides, the sexual tension between you two can set the auditorium on fire."

"Eww. Just, eww." Beca frowned, partly at the bitter taste on her mouth. "Please don't use 'sexual tension' to describe me and Aubrey ever again. Sure, we have chemistry. But I have it with everybody. It doesn't mean I like her."

"A little arrogant, aren't we? Is that why you're here?" Stacie walked over and sat on Beca's lap, grinding her hips suggestively. "Are you finally acknowledging this chemistry that we have?"

"Get your filthy boobs out of my face!" Beca laughed, trying to push her off.

Stacie stubbornly hung on until she fell on the floor, giggling. "Aww, you never let me have any fun."

"Seriously, though, I'm sorry for insulting you. I honestly don't think you're a slut. You're just a girl who really likes sex and isn't afraid to take what she wants."

"You certainly know how to charm women, don't you?" Stacie tousled Beca's hair and the smaller woman danced away. "It's cool, as long as you pick up that tumbler you dramatically chucked like there was no tomorrow. Now, about Aubrey..."

"Don't."

"I'll bet you my best bra this will come up again soon –"

"I'm going nowhere near your dirty bra, because you'll lose."

Stacie rolled her eyes, but didn't push it.


	2. Of Absences and Disco Biscuits

**Okay, first off:** Thanks for those who showed interest in this fic! Around the ninth chapter of my other multichapter, I realized I have unknowingly jumped into the Mitchsen ship. For some reason I understand them better. While Chloe is nice and sweet, I have a very hard time writing her into the Triple Treble picture.

Which leads us into this new multichapter I've written to get out all the feels. This is currently my favorite thing to write, and I have to warn you that it would take me longer to update this one, because I want it really, really perfect and polished. I'd go as far as saying I want this to be my Fanfiction masterpiece (if there is such a thing).

Lastly, I changed the title from 'Better in the Dark' to 'Evening Sun'. When I published the first chapter I didn't really have the perfect title in mind, so I just cast my mind around and decided on a random song. However, I recently realized 'Evening Sun' by The Strokes describes her and Aubrey's position quite nicely (for reasons you will know in the next chapters, or you can just look for the song yourself). Anyway, I'm rambling. I hope you all continue to enjoy this. **Feel free to comment and review, I love hearing from you guys.**

* * *

And of course it doesn't come up, because _life_.

Or more specifically, because when the dust of that crazed month settled – when the Bellas won the a capella championship, took final exams, attended Aubrey and Chloe's graduation, went to all the year-ender parties, and Beca announced her move to LA in one of those parties – Aubrey was as distant as ever.

Beca had barely seen her that month. Even then it was always at a distance, and it never felt enough. There were days when Beca was just dying to drop by the blonde's apartment, because she simply had to _know_. How was Aubrey faring? What happened next? Yet Beca didn't, because maybe she was better off not knowing – no, she doesn't need to know more about the girl who constantly gnawed at her thoughts at two in the morning. She had asked Chloe about her at least thrice, in the subtlest of ways – _by the way, how's Aubrey?_ And Chloe's answers had often been worried and worrisome. _She's working too hard. She's too quiet. She doesn't want to see anybody. She barely sleeps._

* * *

"Just fucking bring her flowers or something, dude," Stacie finally snapped, on the fourth time Beca casually asked Chloe about the blonde. "You've been jerking your toner long enough!"

"Don't. Bree is allergic to flowers," Chloe said, her blue eyes not leaving the gray flannel shirt she was folding. "Beca, how did you dupe me into folding your clothes?!"

"Because you, Chloe Beale, are my bitch."

The three of them were at Beca's dorm. She was leaving for LA in three days, and Chloe, who had been complaining about the amount of alcohol and pizza she was consuming lately, decided the most wholesome way they could hang out was by prematurely packing Beca's luggage. Most of the students had gone home during the first week of summer break; the remaining ones from the a capella student community were only staying for Beca's going-away party.

"The two of us have never been enough for you, Beca, dammit!" Stacie said in a faux-offended voice, looping an arm around Chloe's shoulder and pretending to glare at the smaller brunette. "Are we not enough of a challenge for you? Do you have a blonde fetish? Do you like being dominated?"

"What can Bree offer you that Stacie and I couldn't possibly give you?" Chloe added, pouting and playing along. "Why must you be so greedy? What do you want, a harem?"

Beca, who was cleaning and packing her studio monitor speakers, laughed. "It's not like that at all, okay? It's just that I was there when the whole thing with her dad happened. I'm just following through."

"You'd think the two of you would be friends now, after you stayed with her that night." Stacie flopped onto the bed, tinkering with the plastic camera Beca said she could have. "Was the sex that bad? Was it so bad the Captain actually repressed her memory of it?"

"You had _sex?!" _Chloe, her blue eyes wide, shrieked as she grabbed Beca's collar. "Is this why Bree doesn't want to talk about what you did that night? _You fucked her?_"

"Chloe, how many times do I tell you never to take Stacie seriously?" Beca glared at Stacie, who was laughing hysterically. "Can someone remind me why I have crazy-bitch friends? Jesus."

"Because you wuv us?" Chloe cooed, apologetically smoothing out the collar of Beca's shirt. "Seriously, what happened that night? You two are acting like you murdered someone."

Beca cringed at Chloe's unnecessarily-gory description, and then sighed. "She got drunk on wine, we danced, she cried, I held her until she fell asleep. That's it."

Chloe and Stacie looked at each other and let out a spontaneous, "Aww."

"Becs, I have to say, you're the sweetest." Chloe planted a kiss on Beca's cheek, and the brunette turned red.

"You _held_ her?" Stacie smirked. "Beca Mitchell doesn't just hold anybody! Oh, I am so jealous."

"Beca's held me a lot of times before," Chloe teased, sticking out her tongue.

"_What?! _Beca, how come you've never held me?" Stacie put on an offended expression. "Hold me. Now. With your clothes off."

"That's nothing, because Beca and I showered together once. Ooh, burn!"

"Okay, that didn't happen, you actually barged in –" Beca began, but Stacie quickly drowned out her words.

"Oh, I can trump that, Disney Face. Let me get my dominatrix suit –"

"Beca, honey, can you put out our double dildo so we can show Stacie?"

Beca was chortling. "Knock it off, ladies. I am not doing a three-way with you."

"But on a more serious note, bro, I am so proud of you." Stacie reached out for a fist-bump. "It takes a lot to be nice to someone who's hated you for a year."

"Hey, Bree doesn't hate Beca," Chloe said, quickly coming to her best friend's defense. "It's nothing personal. She's been under so much stress for most of her life, plus the fact that she likes being in control. And you –" she turned to Beca – "It didn't help that you've been so snarky. Bree hates being antagonized. You could have come on less strong."

"Less strong?!" Beca exclaimed hotly. "I practically ignore Aubrey whenever she's yelling at me during practice –"

"– only to grumble some cheeky stuff once she turns her back," Stacie finished.

"Stacie, dude, whose side are you on?"

Chloe raised an eyebrow at Beca's statement, and the brunette only rolled her eyes in reply. "Aubrey's like an alligator. Snapping is her default stance."

"That's true," Chloe sighed, "but only until you get past it. Bree is a wonderful person, you guys! She's fiercely loyal, she's caring, she's very responsible –"

The stony, unconvinced expressions of the brunettes opposite her gave her pause.

"Wow, she sounds boring," Stacie remarked offhandedly.

Beca honestly didn't agree with Stacie, but she wasn't going to say that. "Chloe, if you love her so much, why don't you marry her?"

"Because you love her too, you dolt."

"Nice!" Stacie gave Chloe a high-five.

"I don't love her!" Beca explained, exasperated. "Okay, I was there in her time of need or whatever. But once she gets over it, we'll probably go back to hating each other."

"It would be nice if you can be friends instead," Chloe grumbled. "You and Aubrey are so alike sometimes, Beca. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be friends with Aubrey?"

"No," Beca lied flatly. "Besides, I'll be gone in a week. What's the point?"

It was her turn to give them pause. After a few moments of thick silence, Chloe burst into tears.

"Oh no." Stacie rose and pulled Chloe into her arms. She then reached out and grabbed Beca's shirt front. "Don't just stand there, lover. It's grope hug time."

Beca made a face, but she awkwardly put an arm around the redhead's waist. "Aww, Chlo. It's going to be okay. We'll write and stuff."

"You write," Stacie snorted. "We'll Skype you, since we're from the modern age."

"You're a heck of a talent, and I'm sure you'll make it in LA," Chloe hiccupped. "But we'll miss you so much."

"I'll miss you guys too," Beca admitted, taking a deep breath to stop from making more mushy statements. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Chloe sobbed for a little while longer before finally pulling herself together. Wiping her tears, she pressed her face to Beca's cheek. "We love you."

"Ditto," Beca replied, uncomfortably but sincerely; she felt too self-conscious and shy to say the words back. "I'll get you autographs from Zooey Deschanel and Ryan Hemsworth, okay?"

"Awesome. I'm sorry for crying. I know it makes you uneasy," Chloe mumbled, chuckling a little. "It just happened, I just realized you're leaving so soon – _Stacie, are you seriously grabbing my ass right now?_"

"It just happened, I just realized it's so close to my hand," Stacie shot back, and they all broke out into laughter, dissipating the gloomy atmosphere. "Becs, if Chloe and I make out right now, will you stay? Just for the three-way?"

"Tempting, but no."

Chloe was grinning now. "What if we include Aubrey?"

"No. Hard no. Dammit, you guys. I – don't – like – her. I've said it a bunch of times now."

They fell silent for another moment, still holding each other close, while Beca mulled on how her friends could possibly keep misinterpreting her concern for the blonde as something else.

"Did you at least cup her ass while you were dancing?"

"Conrad, you're incorrigible."

* * *

Beca liked to think of herself as rational, relaxed, even _cool_.

But on her last day at Atlanta – when Chloe told her Aubrey had left the previous night for an interview at Cambridge, and might not be able to make it to her going-away party later – Beca just spectacularly lost it.

"It's my last fucking party at Barden. She can't _not _come!"

"Of course I told her that, Becs. She only said she'll do her best to get back –"

"For fuck's sake, it's – what? A couple of hours from there to Atlanta? Three hours, tops!"

" – and if she doesn't, could I please tell you she's very sorry."

Unbelievable, Beca thought. The blonde was fucking unbelievable.

* * *

Fat Amy lived in a fancy rented mansion in West Paces Ferry Road, and naturally, it was where all Bella-related parties were held. The moment Beca arrived, Fat Amy promptly seized her by the collar.

"Crikey, DJ, you're frigging late to your own party!"

Before Beca could object, the Aussie started hollering in a megaphone for everyone's attention.

"Tonight, we go off like Taswegin frogs in socks for our ace mate Beca! Let's make it a ripper of a shivoo she won't ever forget!"

Everyone cheered, and Fat Amy released the uncomprehending Beca into the crowd, where she was plied with drinks almost immediately.

She lost count at the fifth cup of Jack and coke, brought diligently by people too intent on obeying Fat Amy, people who looked nothing like the one person she desperately wanted to see tonight, people who would sometimes have the willowy frame but not the blonde hair, the blonde hair but not the sharp green eyes.

Two hours later, she was incredibly, visibly grim. Stacie took one glance at her face and began pushing her out towards the pool in the back yard.

"What the fuck?"

"You need to see some boobies, dude. I know that look."

But it wasn't boobies Beca had been looking for the entire evening, and she couldn't even mind the half-drunk girls frolicking in the water. She merely leaned back on a pool lounge, miserable, her one hand dangling over the seat, the other arm over her eyes.

When Chloe turned up, wet, frisky and ravishing in a tiny blue two-piece bikini, Beca barely glanced at the goods.

"Becs, you darling sourpuss. Come join us!"

Beca attempted a smile and shook her head. "I'm good, Chloe."

"Please?" Chloe whined, her hands already wandering in front of Beca's flannel shirt, clumsily trying to unbutton it. "I don't get to see you naked often enough."

Stacie, thankfully, stepped in to restrain Chloe. "You know it's something when _I_ have to pull you off people," she commented wryly; Chloe's corresponding laugh was way too loud, Beca concluded she was drunk. "Oi! Fat Amy!"

Fat Amy, who was passing by with two well-built jocks on each arm, stopped and breezily gave Stacie and Chloe kisses on the cheek. "Aca-bitches. Enjoying the shindig? Red, where's El Capitan? She's already missed half my parties since –"

Chloe elbowed her in the ribs and motioned to Beca. The Aussie quickly noticed Beca's miserable expression.

"Veg out, Short Stack, what's wrong?"

Beca wasn't even sure. "Nothing. I'm just, um, probably sad to be leaving."

"You're dry as a drover's dog, that's what's wrong," Fat Amy replied sagely, noting Beca's empty hands. She turned and whispered to one of the jocks behind her. He quickly disappeared, and returned with a small tray of shot glasses filled with milky-green liquid.

"This is dinky-di Pernod absinthe, you bitches. I got Lilly to mix it up for us."

"Thanks, but I've had enough –"

"Becs, I never pegged you as a two-pot screamer, mate. So drink up, alright?"

Beca wasn't too keen on drinking anything Lilly ever touched, but she wouldn't hear the end of it from the surrounding Bellas if she didn't. So she forced herself to swallow the noxious-looking mix in a couple of gulps, and watched the others do the same.

"Okay, now that's done – bitches, for the sake of our mateship, I gotta tell you something."

Beca instantly tensed at Fat Amy's words. "What?"

"I had Lilly slip some, y'know, disco biscuit on the grog."

The rest of them were, as usual, confused by what passed for Fat Amy as conversational English. "What are you talking about?" Chloe prompted, and at this, Fat Amy responded with a wink and a whisper:

"Y'know. E. On the absinthe."

_That _Beca understood. And while she had tried ecstasy before, it wasn't exactly how she had envisioned her last night in Atlanta would go. _"What?! _You _what?!"_

"Oh shut up, Beca!" Stacie intervened exasperatedly, stepping between her and Fat Amy. "Look, we get it – you want to chase your dream. Fine, off you go. But at least have the decency to enjoy this grand send-off we prepared for you, okay? You think the last thing we want to remember of you is your damn mopey face? Fuck no! So pull your shit together, because you're fucking going to have fun whether you fucking like it or not!"

Beca swallowed. Stacie was one of the most tolerant people she knew. And seeing her losing her patience felt a little alarming. "Calm down, Stace. Will do."

Stacie huffed, but she stooped to grab Beca's face in her hands. "You better. Now look alive, will you?"

Beca managed a weak grin. Stacie responded with a bigger one before giving the smaller brunette a resounding peck on the lips. "Dammit, Stace, don't Fredo-kiss me."

"Sorry, darling. Didn't know you strictly reserved that for the bedroom."

"Okay, that's settled, love and hugs all around," Chloe announced brightly, taking Beca's hand. "Don't keep her to yourself, Stacie. Let's go fucking party!"

Beca nodded and let herself be dragged towards the pool.

* * *

An hour later, the ecstasy drops – and then _bam_, lawless wonderland.

Somewhere, someone – probably Luke – was playing a lot of Beca's mixes, and holy fuck, the music's just _perfect_. It was vibrating off the walls, pulsating into waves, surging right through the crowd. Beca felt an almost-visceral need to dance and found it pointless to resist. Having her body move rhythmically to the fast throbbing bass felt fucking _wonderful. _

The lights were intense and blurry and pretty and she could kiss everyone. All around her, the friends she loved most swayed and pushed and pulled her into a repetitive, speedy, yet always-exciting rolling coaster going up – up – up.

In the gloom Stacie thumped her back fondly, and Beca just knew she'd never find herself a more loyal friend. Fat Amy always made sure they never ran out of drinks. Jack and coke had never, ever tasted _that_ good.

At some point Lilly popped open a bottle of champagne over the raving, cheering crowd. Beca joined the throng and stretched her hands toward the spray, the icy droplets trailing goosebumps all over her skin.

When Chloe appeared, lapping up the droplets on Beca's neck with hot, heavy breaths to match, the sensations were suddenly electric. They danced, pressing closely to each other, and it didn't take long for Chloe's tongue to find Beca's in the dark. Kissing her was like drinking sunlight, and at that moment, Beca felt like she could conquer the world.

* * *

By midnight the euphoria was winding down and Beca just had to get away from all the noise. Her throat was scratched and burning, and if she didn't find water soon, she might just fucking combust.

She staggered out of the house unnoticed, found the front yard empty save for a long line of parked cars, and promptly started kicking the nearest hedges with a methodical fury that, without warning, suddenly took hold of her senses.

"Fucking hell! Mother – fucking – hell!"

Goddammit, why the fuck was she so angry now?

"Beca!"

It was like someone had suddenly shut off the sound. The muted pounding of electronic music, the hum of the party inside the house, the cicadas chirping intermittently in the dark, the sloshing of ice cubes in her cup – Beca heard none of these, because she sought out something else. She wanted that voice to say her name again, in the void she had created especially for them.

"Beca." Now it wasn't just an authoritative voice anymore but a warm touch at her shoulder, steering her around with surprising agility – and there was Aubrey, in a little plum-colored _dress, _of all the fucking things, because it wasn't enough that her blonde tresses were still elegantly curled in the dead of night, and her posture was still poker-straight, and her half-parted lips and green eyes glimmered as she came closer, and she was beautiful and shiny and all the right things even in the fucking moonlight.

Beca could actually feel her anger swiftly dissipating the longer she stared. Fuck, she was becoming some sort of bipolar, wasn't she? And then she decided to succumb to her first instinct: walking closer to the blonde, she pulled her into a hug with an exuberance that surprised both of them.

To her credit, Aubrey didn't flinch or back away. She patted Beca's back with some trepidation; but when they drew apart, Aubrey had a flushed, uncertain, yet amused expression on her face.

"Shit, I'm fucking sorry," Beca quickly apologized, suddenly realizing what she just did. "Fat Amy slipped disco biscuit on my grog – I mean, they slipped me some fucking E –"

"It's fine," Aubrey exhaled, and Beca could feel her own features expanding into an uncontrollable grin, because she just rendered the blonde _breathless_.

"I'm so fucking glad you came."

Aubrey still had a slight smile on her face, but she straightened up, trying to regain her composure. "I...I promised myself I wouldn't miss it. Why are you killing plants?"

Beca shook her head. She now knew why, but no way was she ever going to tell Aubrey. "I don't like bushes. Can I get you anything? Drink? Disco biscuit?"

"I don't think you can walk, much less get me anything in that state."

"You're right. And I wouldn't know where to get disco biscuit anyway – it's just really fun saying it, again and again. Disco biscuit. Disco biscuit."

Aubrey sighed. "Beca, if you could only hear yourself right now. Will you wait here?"

Beca didn't ask why; she just nodded, still transfixed by the blonde's presence. Aubrey disappeared into the house. Beca wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it hadn't felt long before the blonde came back with a glass of water in hand.

"You're a savior." Beca took the glass Aubrey was offering, taking deep draughts. She felt less hoarse with each swallow. "Thanks."

"Ecstasy makes people dehydrated," Aubrey said. "And you were very hot earlier, so..."

"Thank you, I know." Beca attempted a wink, ended up blinking both eyes stupidly, and laughed.

"Not that way, you dork." Aubrey's small smile was back. When their eyes accidentally met the next moment, though, they suddenly had nothing to say to each other.

Aubrey finally cleared her throat. "You should go back inside."

"Dude, no. I can't even find the door. You should go inside, though – you look fucking killer." Apparently the ecstasy was still working, because Beca's filter was virtually nonexistent, and she couldn't care less. "I mean, really lovely."

"I got that." Aubrey looked down at her heels, but not before Beca caught her bashful expression. "Thank you."

Beca half-bowed in response and began stumbling towards the general direction of Barden, feeling Aubrey's stare at the back of her head. She had gone at least twelve steps when she heard Aubrey's voice cutting through the night.

"I'll drive you home."

* * *

She ended up riding shotgun in Aubrey's white Honda Civic – a control-freak car, which came as no surprise. When the blonde prompted her to put on her seatbelt, she wanted to laugh. Aubrey could be hard to read most of the time, but there were, at least, things she could be predictable about.

The drive was quiet because she was too busy looking at Aubrey's hands. The blonde was a hell of an efficient driver – hawk-eyed, alert, never wasting any more movement on the wheel and the stick shift than she had to. But then again, she had more or less the same almost-military conduct on every other situation Beca had seen her in.

I already know too much, Beca thought, glancing at the blonde's forearms and recalling the way they wrapped around her neck a few weeks ago. We can never be the same again_._

* * *

"How did you know where I live?" Beca asked, while Aubrey parallel-parked right in front of Baker Hall.

"We waited here when..." Aubrey was decent enough not to continue, but Beca only shrugged.

"Yeah, when I got arrested. You have an excellent memory."

Aubrey only nodded, watching Beca fumbling to get her seatbelt off.

"D'you wanna come in?" The invitation had escaped Beca's lips before she could stop it, but she couldn't very well take it back, so she plodded on. "I've got, uh, a vending machine ten steps from my room."

Aubrey seemed to consider it for a moment.

"I can live with that," she finally said, moving to unclasp her seatbelt as well.


	3. Evening Sun

They sat in silence, Beca by the desk and Aubrey in her bed, twirling their respective bottles of water, not looking at each other.

Aubrey had dark circles under her eyes. Beca hadn't noticed before. But now that they were in well-lit surroundings, Aubrey looked impeccable, yet exhausted.

"So, uh, how did your interview go?"

Aubrey perked up at the sound of her voice, and replied stiffly, "It went fine, thank you."

An awkward hush fell over them again. Beca often had a hard time dealing with silence, especially now –hearing nothing but cicadas out in the quad and the occasional car passing by the dorm blocks in the wee hours of the morning wasn't exactly helping her come down nicely from her drug-induced high.

She crossed the room, opened one of her packed suitcases, and pulled out her portable Crosley turntable. "Mind if I play music?"

"No."

Beca shuffled through the pile of vinyl records in the same suitcase. Aubrey watched with interest as the brunette placed the turntable on the desk, gently fitted one record on it, and lowered the needle. Beca hummed with satisfaction at the familiar soft crackle, before slow, haunting plucks of bass guitar filled the room.

"I've never pegged you as a vinyl collector," Aubrey observed as Beca settled back on her swivel chair.

"I started learning how to DJ on turntables, so it was kind of necessary," Beca explained. "Then I gradually crossed over to a DJ controller setup, but I couldn't let the records go. I've already spent so much time and effort painstakingly collecting them. Might as well enjoy them separately."

Aubrey nodded. "What is this song?"

Beca recalled her asking the same question roughly a month ago. "Hey by Pixies. You like it?"

"Yes. It's as good as the one you played last time."

The thought that they were both remembering that almost-rainy Friday night brought a smile to Beca's face. "Thanks."

Aubrey smiled back. And it wasn't the usual one she donned for the sake of appearances, the one that was obviously insincere and half-frustrated – her smile tonight was a little wistful, but genuine. The hush that followed now felt comfortable, even easy.

"By the way, I never got to thank you," Aubrey said softly. "For staying with me that night."

"Don't mention it," Beca tried to brush off, slightly worried that Aubrey would remember more: the outright rejection of her father, the wave of grief that followed, crying herself to sleep.

"No, I should. What you did..." Aubrey took a deep breath, her green eyes meeting Beca's, "It meant a lot to me at that time. Thank you."

Beca nodded. "You're welcome."

"Also, thanks for asking about me."

"Dammit, Chloe," Beca cursed out loud. "Sorry. I told Chloe not to tell you."

"Go easy on her. She didn't tell me, I figured it out."

Beca sighed. "Yeah. I guess that wasn't hard for you at all."

Aubrey turned red, but she covered it up with an eye roll. "You've given me five different compliments in the span of an hour, Beca. I'm not even taking you seriously."

"We're five to one then. I'm not hearing any more compliments from you, Aubrey, so you'd better catch up. I thought you liked winning?"

"I don't remember handing you any compliments."

"Well, you told me I was hot. You can't ever take that away from me."

Aubrey scoffed. "You're not exactly my type, but fine. I'll let you have that one."

"Don't worry about it. No one would ever believe we've had a normal, friendly conversation anyway."

Aubrey's mouth tightened into a thin line, and just like that, she was on edge again. "I'm that difficult to deal with," she said, her tone accusatory.

"No!" Beca almost exclaimed, slightly dazed at the speed by which the conversation turned. "Well – yes, sometimes, but –"

"But what?"

"– but when you're not a walking, raging ball of stress, you're –" Beca cut off, scrambling for words that were less straightforward, because the current ones in her head sounded like she _cared_. "You're, well, okay," she finished lamely.

Aubrey's eyebrow couldn't possibly go any higher. "Are you being patronizing?"

"Jesus Christ, Aubrey, no." Beca cradled her head in her hands, trying not to lose her temper with the blonde. If they continued like this she would surely get a headache. "Okay, I mean when you're not being neurotic, I can actually stand being around you. That non-patronizing enough?"

The blonde stared at Beca for a long time, and then her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

"Fair enough," she answered, biting her lip and looking away towards the window, and now all Beca felt was terrible.

"Sorry," she finally said, figuring that at least she had to apologize for being too harsh. "That was a little too, um, honest."

Aubrey didn't say anything, only stared back at her.

"If it helps, I've been told I have the emotional range of a hyena."

"That wouldn't be fair to hyenas," Aubrey snorted. "I'm sorry. I like making a big deal out of things."

"No worries," Beca replied easily, slightly surprised that the blonde was able to admit her mistake without hesitation, and just glad that the entire thing didn't escalate into their usual shouting match.

"If it helps, I've been told I need to relax."

"Yeah, but that's easier said than done." Beca rolled her chair closer to the bed, set her feet right next to Aubrey, and almost laughed at the blonde's scandalized expression. "Are you doing anything about it?"

Aubrey swallowed visibly, but she didn't back away. They were now barely an arm's length from each other. "What do you think?"

"Nothing works."

"Exactly." Aubrey's hands were fidgeting with her water bottle, but she kept her gaze level with Beca's. "Deep breaths, meditation, autogenic training, all that relaxation bullcrap? They're futile."

"What about anti-anxiety pills?"

"I have them, but I use them as rarely as possible. They ruin my concentration. And in the worst-case scenario, they don't work."

"That doesn't sound like a worst-case scenario."

"Not until you take three pills right before Pukesgate, and discover you could projectile-vomit."

It was Aubrey's matter-of-fact way of speaking that got to Beca, more than the brutal honesty. If Beca ever learned that she had a spectacularly-embarrassing video with over two hundred thousand views, she'd probably leave the country and live on some backwater jungle for a year. But not only did Aubrey take the blow with dignity, she even returned to lead the Bellas and redeem herself from the humiliation.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Aubrey only shrugged. "No more than I am."

Beca wouldn't ever pride herself on her eloquence – it barely took one phrase from her sometimes for Aubrey to take offense – but she felt like she had to at least say something to make the blonde feel better. But it was almost one in the morning, they were seated a little too close, she was plastered as hell, coming down from ecstasy was starting to make her awfully dizzy, and the only ideas that came to her mind weren't exactly wholesome.

Her face probably showed some of her apprehension, because Aubrey prompted, "Spit it out, Beca."

"Oh, no," Beca chuckled. "You're not gonna like this."

"And now you've made it all the more intriguing. Tell me."

"Wow, you really have a habit of commanding people, huh?"

"I wouldn't be called El Capitan if I didn't."

"Wait, you know we call you El Capitan?"

Aubrey rolled her eyes again. "I know everything. What escapes me is why you aca-girls do not call me La Capitana instead."

"Well..." Fat Amy had invented the nickname, and when Chloe (who refused to use it) asked the same question, the Aussie's answer made a lot of sense. "It's because you have balls."

To her relief, Aubrey wasn't offended; on the contrary, she seemed bemused. "I guess I should be flattered."

"You should," Beca smirked. "We call you that with all due respect. Enjoy it."

"I will. But I haven't forgotten what we were talking about before all this, Beca. Say it."

"Your funeral." Beca kicked off the bed and rolled the office chair back to the desk, just in case Aubrey decided to slap her for the things she said next. "I was thinking of another relaxation aid. It might be too unorthodox for you, though."

"What?" Aubrey asked warily.

In response, Beca started rummaging in one of the desk drawers, removing a couple of blocks of wood from it and reaching inside. She finally emerged triumphantly with a small, unremarkable green tin box of Altoids, holding it up for Aubrey to see. "This."

Aubrey looked at her like she was crazy. "Breath mints?"

"No, not that." Beca pried the box open, and took out a small Ziploc packet filled with what seemed like fuzzy green clumps of cotton. "This."

"Oh my god." Aubrey laughed disbelievingly and stood up to get a closer look. "You have got to be kidding me."

"From the look on your face, I'm assuming you've never tried this before." Beca tossed her the packet, sure that Aubrey would want to scrutinize it, and took out the remaining contents of the box: flavored paper, a Rizla booklet, a grinder, an expired plastic library card.

Aubrey did scrutinize it, opening the packet and taking out a bud. She held it up to the light interestedly. "Honestly, I have never even seen this up close before."

"If you're up for it, you can try it," Beca offered, in the most casual way she could manage – Aubrey, paranoid as she was, might think Beca was trying to date-rape her or something if she sounded even the least bit eager. "No pressure, though. I just really need to smoke right now." It was true; in the previous two times she had to deal with comedown blues, a joint kept her from sinking into the horrible post-effects of paranoia and sleeplessness.

Aubrey handed the packet back, and instead of the refusal Beca expected, the blonde was chewing on her bottom lip, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"It's...illegal."

Beca could almost see the cogs turning on Aubrey's head; she merely leaned back on her chair and waited.

"But I'd be lying if I said I've never been curious."

"You can watch me roll one while you decide. At least you'd learn something from me."

"Drugs?" But Aubrey was laughing as she positioned herself on the other side of the desk, which Beca took as a good sign.

And Aubrey did watch, lips pursed and eyes intense, while Beca ground, rolled and sprinkled. When she set down the library card she used for cinching the paper, Aubrey looked it over.

"I didn't know you lived in California."

Beca finished licking the gum edge of the paper before replying. "Yeah. At Fullerton."

"You're a California native?"

Beca shook her head. "My mom's from Portland."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up at Fullerton?"

Beca pondered how best to answer the question. "It's a long story," she finally concluded, twisting the end of the joint closed.

Aubrey made a show of looking at her watch. "I've got all night."

"Well, if you really have to know, the short version is this: two years ago I visited my then-girlfriend, who was studying at Cal State Fullerton. I enjoyed the place so much, I never left."

"Oh, please. I'm sure it wasn't just the place you enjoyed."

"Nah, seriously. She didn't know I was coming, and when I arrived at her dorm I caught her getting it on with her Psych professor."

"...wow."

"Exactly." Beca handed Aubrey the finished product, a thin, tight conical joint. "There you go."

Aubrey turned it over with slender fingers. "So what did you do?"

"Well, the professor's hot – a real cougar. And she's British. So I joined in."

_"What?!"_

Beca laughed. "Kidding. I went to a bar, got drunk, walked around. Then I got tired and checked into the first cheap hotel I saw."

"That's reckless."

"It was, because it turned out that the hotel mostly catered to drag queens. It took me a long while to figure out why they kept giving me the stinkeye."

"Did you join –" Aubrey started to ask, her green eyes glinting mischievously.

"Nope. They pegged me for a ridiculously pretty drag queen," Beca chortled, taking back the joint and rising to sit on the windowsill. She lit up with a Bic lighter and puffed. The smoke scratched through her raw throat with a vengeance; she ended up coughing uncontrollably.

Aubrey tossed her water bottle in the brunette's lap. "And that is why kids shouldn't do drugs."

Beca took a swig, soothing her airway enough to manage a laugh. "You're totally savoring that moment of _schadenfreude_, huh?"

"Oh, wow, do you really know what _schadenfreude_ means?"

"Shut up, Posen. You don't have a patent on fancy German words."

Beca's second puff went down with no further incident, now only dimly aware that the blonde was watching her. She had not smoked in a year. The warmth washed over her, and she could actually feel the tightness in her head and chest disappearing. This was the perfect end to her short, bittersweet collegiate experience.

She didn't realize Aubrey had crept up next to her until the blonde noiselessly took the joint from her fingers. Beca started, but let go. She couldn't help but look with detached curiosity as Aubrey took a drag, paused, and tilted her chin up gracefully to blow out smoke, letting it drift out the open window.

"So why'd you change your mind?"

"I didn't change it, I was making it up." Aubrey took another drag and handed it back. "It's not as bad as the debate teams say."

"They pick that debate topic all the time, eh?"

"God, yes. So much that I know all the science behind weed even when I've never tried it."

They settled into the same companionable silence earlier, hands barely brushing as they passed the joint back and forth. Beca's skin was tingling – her first indication of being high. Time ground to a slow march. Everything was clear: the white walls, the synth beats coming from the turntable, her mere two-foot distance from Aubrey. She unconsciously started humming along to the music. _Oh, you've got green eyes. Oh, you've got blue eyes. Oh, you've got grey eyes. _She glanced at Aubrey, and at the same moment, the song title hit her.

The blonde looked back at her, an unusually-relaxed smile gracing her features. "You have a goofy grin in your face right now."

"I just realized that song is called Temptation."

Aubrey laughed, a pleasant staccato sound. "So what's tempting you?"

Those errant strands of hair covering your eyes, Beca thought. That smooth dip where your neck meets your shoulder. Somehow the clarity of her senses extended to the faint scent of lavender on Aubrey's skin.

Beca was, fortunately, spared from answering when Aubrey abruptly set a hand to her knee. The touch was innocent, but it sent goosebumps up and down her leg.

"Beca," she gasped, her green eyes wide as a soft giggle escaped her lips. "That song sounds fucking _amazing_."

She had officially gotten Aubrey Posen stoned.

* * *

The joint finished, they were back where they started: Beca on the wheeled office chair, Aubrey on the bed. Only this time Aubrey wasn't sitting stiffly at the edge. She was luxuriously stretched out on top of the covers, heels abandoned on the floor, back leaning on the headboard and eyes closed. The only indication she wasn't asleep was her fingers lightly tapping on her knee in time to the music.

Beca thought it was the first time she saw the blonde so calm. It would probably be the last time as well.

"I've never thought music sounds this wonderful," Aubrey mused. "I could hear _everything_."

"That's what it does. It heightens the senses."

Aubrey nodded. "And this song is so contemplative. It's probably the first time I took lyrics so seriously."

Beca smiled. She could hear everything too, and Evening Sun had always been, in her opinion, the most sincere song Julian Casablancas had ever written. "It gets better. Wait for the bridge."

"What is this song?"

"Evening Sun. It's by The Strokes."

"I'll have to write that down. I'm so wrecked I could hardly recall what we were talking about five minutes ago."

Beca snorted, but she took out the tiny stub of a pencil she always kept in her pocket. She found a cab receipt in her shirt pocket and jotted down _The Strokes – Evening Sun._

"You keep a pencil on you all the time?"

"You can't judge me. Chloe said you always have a pen on you."

"I wasn't judging! I suppose she told you about that guy from our freshman year?"

"The guy who stalked both of you in a party, then you stabbed with a pen when he tried to pull Chloe outside? Yeah, that was badass," Beca grinned, handing Aubrey the scrap of paper. "Okay. This is the bridge part."

Aubrey listened, biting her lip in concentration. When the song had reached its last chorus, she said, "I don't understand."

"Which part?"

"The one after 'go your separate way now, someday you'll come back and I'll be dreaming I was sunburned'," Aubrey half-sang, quite accurately.

Beca gaped at her. "Are you for real?"

"I pick up melody and lyrics quickly, get over it."

"Alright, jeez. So the next lyric is 'I don't wanna make your heart and break your heart in two halves, keep one half and give one half to me'."

"It's quite contradictory."

"It's meant to be that way," Beca explained. "I'd like to think the singer wants to stay away from the girl he's talking about, but he couldn't resist her either. He wants to forget, but he wants to remember. He's letting her go, but more than anything, he longs to have her back."

"That's profound," Aubrey murmured, her green eyes flicking towards Beca. "'Break your heart in two halves, keep one half and give one half to me.'" She beamed to herself.

"What are you so happy about?"

"Nothing," Aubrey said, and her smile was suddenly affectionate. "I was just reminded of something."

* * *

"So this is what your weekends are like? Lying in bed stoned while listening to records?"

"No, I make mixes and get dragged to parties. I have a life, you know." Beca stretched to fit her legs on the bed, perpendicular to Aubrey's. "Besides, I haven't done this in a year."

"Beca," Aubrey said suddenly. "What do you think of Chloe?"

"Oh no," Beca quipped, but she was laughing.

"Shut up. You know I'm going to ask eventually," Aubrey said, equally amused. By now their standards of fun had dramatically lowered to juvenile levels; Aubrey had previously been giggling at Beca's bad puns she normally would have sneered at. "I'm not going to tell her – what use would it be now? I just want to know."

Beca paused. She had been asked the same thing, over and over, by everyone else – Stacie, Cynthia Rose, Fat Amy, even Jesse. She had mulled it over several times too, usually right after when Chloe hung out with her at the radio station or at the dorm. Chloe was undeniably attractive, intelligent, kind, with an honest charm that disarmed everyone into liking her almost immediately. She was also exceptionally affectionate with Beca – so much that she often covertly arranged to never have both of them and Tom in the same room as much as possible. Beca perfectly knew that once she reciprocated, they could be so much more.

And it was exactly why she held herself back from the beginning. She steeled herself to be Chloe's friend in the strictest sense of the word. Chloe's presence often clouded her judgment, and more than anything, Beca wanted to lose control, to simply know what would happen if she took it one step too far. But her rational side always won over, and she never did. She couldn't do anything but grit her teeth whenever the redhead squeezed her hand, touched her cheek, kissed almost at the sensitive spot on her nape. Sometimes she'd bite down so hard the inside of her cheek bled.

She liked Chloe enough, but to lead her on was unfair. Beca respected that Chloe was dating Tom, no matter how shallow their relationship seemed to be at times. And Beca never intended to stay. Being in a relationship with Chloe would only serve to make things more difficult – it was hard enough now as it is.

"I guess we have chemistry." Beca recalled saying the same thing to Stacie about Aubrey. "But I have it with everybody."

Aubrey snickered. "And?"

"And there's nothing more to it. I know everyone wants to hear that I like her and all that sappy bullshit, but she's just a friend."

"Fine. Then what do you think of Tom?"

Beca couldn't help but roll her eyes. Aubrey caught it and laughed.

"Dammit, Posen. I kind of walked into that trap, huh?"

"Yes, but I see where you're coming from." Aubrey nudged Beca's leg with her foot. "I have my reservations about Tom."

"Oh please. Tom is a tool," Beca declared, more savagely than she'd intended; Aubrey laughed harder, a mirthful, carefree, resonant sound from the chest that Beca realized she liked. "There, I said it."

"You have been _dying_ to tell someone about this, haven't you?"

Beca shrugged. While she held Chloe in the utmost respect, the opposite could be said of Tom. He was occasionally sensible whenever he managed to tear himself away from his soccer teammates, but Beca found him too incompatible with Chloe. Tom was vain, apathetic, and inexplicably selfish; he didn't care to understand the details of Chloe's life, her hopes and dreams, as long as Chloe was involved with his. His only saving grace was his charm. He treated Chloe like a queen whenever they were together, proudly showed her off to everyone, played the sweet all-American boyfriend stereotype of 80's romantic comedies. And Chloe, despite the constant heartaches Tom gave her, loved all of it.

"I couldn't tell anyone, they'd just say I'm jealous."

"Well, are you?"

"No." She'd long discerned that her dislike of Tom stemmed from her own concern for Chloe as a friend.

"But you do know Chloe likes you, right?" Aubrey's tone was serious.

"Yeah, don't worry. I'm not that thick."

"Hardly. I guess my question after all this is – why didn't you pursue her? You can't deny you like her too. Not to me."

Beca sighed. "Because the only thing I was ever sure of when I arrived in Barden was leaving. We were doomed from the very start."

* * *

"Have you ever wondered about people?"

Beca wasn't sure how they got to this point. But after a second joint, a third vinyl record, and a bunch of random conversations later, she was on the bed beside Aubrey – elbows not quite touching, but still so close she could feel the heat radiating from the blonde's skin.

The room was dark save for the dim orange glow of the night light at Beca's study table. Aubrey was dutifully studying shadows on the ceiling. She had a lazy smile on her lips, a remnant of the hilarious banter they were having a moment earlier. But they have arrived at a point where the high was making them introspective – the time for being insanely amused at the smallest things had passed.

"What about them?"

"Don't you ever wonder what life would have been if you lived a life that's so simple?" Aubrey continued, not looking at Beca. "If you became a mail-order bride, became a hermit on top of the Swiss Alps, farmed in Nebraska for a living, or just lived a life so uncomplicated and small?"

"Countless times."

"I do too. I envy those people. They live everyday with no pressure to be greater than they actually are. They live insignificantly and die happy."

Beca twisted her body to face Aubrey. "But you can never be like them. It's the price of intelligence – you'll never be able to fight off the instinct to overreach, because you can. And you'll never be content if you keep suppressing that instinct."

Aubrey's smile was wry. "I guess not." She closed her eyes, and between the evocatively descending bass lines of _Glory Box _playing on the turntable, they both heard the low rumble of thunder. The summer breeze drifted in through the open window and stirred the room just enough to spread a hint of lavender. I should close the window, Beca thought. It was going to rain. But nothing could detach her from the three-inch thread linking her to Aubrey; if she moved to break it she'd never have the courage to be bound again.

"I never knew you enough," she finally breathed out, after what felt like an eternity of vacillating.

Aubrey turned to her, green eyes gleaming in the dark. Her voice was just as muted when she said, "The same goes for you."

"What took us so long?"

Aubrey actually considered for a moment. "You held everyone at arm's length."

"The same goes for you," Beca mimicked, earning an eye roll from the blonde. "Is it too late for us?"

"Possibly." Aubrey sounded strangely reproachful.

"I don't need to know everything. Just...tell me one thing no one else knows."

Aubrey shifted to put her arms around herself, reacting to the cold drift blowing in. Then she said, "You asked me about my interview earlier."

Beca nodded and waited.

"Honestly, I don't think it went very well." Her voice sounded small.

Beca still didn't speak, only furrowed her brows to show she heard.

"They weren't impressed," Aubrey continued, her expression a little lost. "I – I rambled too much. I said too many personal details. They probably thought I was playing them emotionally."

"Aubrey," Beca began, gently. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"I don't even care for that internship. It's just...my father got me that interview before graduation. He wasn't happy when he learned I was planning go on holiday with Chloe during the summer. I was harshly rebuked for even bringing up the word 'holiday'. And the worst thing is that even when I've already cut him off, I still believe him."

Beca tentatively reached out to touch the agitated blonde's arm. "Here's what I know: being accepted into Harvard Law is impressive enough. Your dad sounds like a man who constantly demands for the moon when he's got the sun right in front of him."

"He is. But I cannot deny that the plan he had laid out for me even before I was born makes perfect pragmatic sense. I am just doing what is right for me."

"Yeah, but I'd rather be happy than be right. And you deserve to be, too."

"I didn't follow his plan because I wanted to be happy," Aubrey said bitterly. "And that's another thing only you would ever know."

Beca exhaled. The weight of Aubrey's sadness felt like a blow to her chest. There it was again – the unexplainable magnetism that drew her to the blonde's presence. The realization that she was just a girl, an insanely striking one, a somewhat-frustrating one, yet one who, given the right circumstances, revealed vulnerability and loneliness and weaknesses and depths very few others had probably seen. Beca had an irresistible urge to know the rest: to know what would really made Aubrey happy, what displeased her, what doesn't make her sleep at two in the morning, what made her tick.

"I'm sorry about that. I probably shouldn't have asked."

Aubrey acknowledged her with a slight shrug.

"I don't know if this would be any comfort to you, Aubrey, but..."

Beca's hand was still on the blonde's elbow, smooth and cool under her palm, and she could swear the other was vibrating with anticipation – for what exactly, she'd probably never know. But Beca wasn't the type to ever do things half-assed. She had to finish her statement, and she gathered all the courage she could muster at 3 a.m. to say it.

"You are the only person who made me wish I could stay."

Aubrey looked up to meet her eyes; hers were burning with a clear question. "I was never important to you."

"You are now. I would have –" Beca's voice caught; she was too nervous for this, and she could barely figure out why. She swallowed. "I would have taken the time to make you happy."

Aubrey's eyes were suddenly soft. She slowly put one hand to graze up Beca's cheek, the light touch so intense against her skin it blurred her vision.

"Beca, you made me happy just now."

And she kissed her.

* * *

Aubrey had a temper and even her lips showed it. Her unexpected passion seized Beca with stunning viciousness; already lying in bed, her knees still buckled and turned to jelly. Her head was swimming. She lost all concept of words, of sounds, of shapes, of time. Aubrey could kiss. And she did so with a hot, greedy, exquisite ferocity that bruised Beca's lips and tore down her defenses. But she loved that it hurt, she wanted all of it.

Someone could have broken in and hammered all the walls to dust but the rushing roar on her ears as Aubrey's tongue swept against hers would still be louder every time. Their breaths mingling, her hands finally delighting in the luxurious blonde hair while Aubrey cradled her jaw in utmost possessiveness, Beca, for the briefest moment, succumbed to the powerful commanding madness that is Aubrey Posen.

* * *

When they broke apart, chests heaving as they stared at each other, the silence was tense. The very thing Beca narrowly escaped with Chloe had happened to her and Aubrey in a span of twenty seconds: she lost control. She was still on the verge of losing it again, with Aubrey so easily within reach.

They exchanged no words. Aubrey turned her back to Beca, but took her hand and pulled to enclose herself into the smaller girl's arm. Beca understood and moved closer to press herself against the blonde's back. What Aubrey was thinking, she willed herself not to know any longer. She closed her eyes and, lulled by the intimate comfort of Aubrey's body, fell asleep faster than she would have liked.

* * *

_I took your 'breath mints'. They won't make it past airport security anyway._

_Until we meet again,_

_Aubrey._

Beca read the note, a half-hearted chuckle escaping her lips. She had awoken to find Aubrey gone. True to form, the blonde fixed the sheets on her side of the bed, and Beca had pressed her face against them to gather the last wisps of lavender with an almost-pathetic longing.

Her flight to LA was that afternoon. She ran through the messages on her phone, replying to people checking up on her, before giving up and closing her eyes. The Bellas are sending her off at the airport later. There she could tell Stacie and Chloe everything they needed to hear – the affirmations of friendship, an apology to Chloe for kissing her last night, and a promise to keep in touch. And this time tomorrow, she would be on LA, with everything she had ever known radically changed and rearranged again.

* * *

Aubrey did not appear at the airport. Chloe explained contritely that she had the flu when she came home from Cambridge and, try as she might, really couldn't make it.

None of them seemed to know where Aubrey had really been last night. Beca felt a pang not seeing her there, but she wouldn't have known what to do or say to her anyway. So she merely grinned and steeled herself through the Bellas saying goodbye and wishing her luck.

Stacie and Chloe sat on either side of her as they waited for the call to board. Both were uncharacteristically quiet; Chloe's eyes were red.

"Guys." She tried to loop an arm around both their shoulders and gave up, since they were way taller. "Talk. Don't do this to me."

Stacie smiled desolately. "Sorry about Aubrey, mate."

Beca briefly considered telling them about last night, but decided not to. "It's cool. We never knew each other enough anyway."

Stacie cleared her throat and said loudly, "Chloe has something to ask you."

Chloe shook her head, and her smile was even bleaker than Stacie's. "It's nothing important."

"It _is_ important," Stacie spoke over her. "Ask her now, Chlo. We might never see her again."

"Wow, you're talking about me like I'm not here anymore –"

"Beca, did our kiss last night mean anything to you?"

Chloe's eyes were suddenly hopeful, and Beca couldn't bring herself to crush the redhead for the first and last time before she left. But if this would be the first and last time she would have to refuse Chloe to save her from being led on, then it had to be done.

"No. Don't get me wrong, Chloe, you mean the world to me." She took Chloe's hand on her own, to distract herself from the sight of Chloe's trembling lower lip. "But I mean that as a friend. I know we could've dated and all, but you'd have been more torn up when I left. I wanted to spare you from all that mess."

Chloe looked like she was trying not to cry. "I wanted that mess, Beca. I still do."

It was Beca's turn to shake her head. "I love you, Chlo. But not in the way you want to hear." She took the sobbing redhead into her arms, and only let go when the PA system announced her flight.

Stacie reached out for one last hug, her face straight, not even trying to inappropriately grab Beca's ass for once. "We'll miss you. Never forget, okay?"

Beca nodded, a hard lump in her throat. She took her backpack and her boarding pass, and moved on.

* * *

**Songs used in this chapter:**

The Pixies - Hey  
New Order - Temptation  
The Strokes - Evening Sun  
Portishead - Glory Box

If you haven't heard some or most of them, check it out. I promise you wouldn't be disappointed.** Thanks for reading!**


	4. Six Years Later

Happy holidays! Sorry this took so long, I've honestly been stumped on how to move forward.

Quick warning: Aubrey doesn't appear in this chapter, and probably even the next. But there will be plenty of Stacie, so that should keep you interested.

I also changed the rating from T to M, because there's a nip slip in this chapter. Hope you can take the time to leave a review!

* * *

_Six years later_

**STOKR: The **_**Vanity Fair **_**Exclusive**

Cover story by **Catherine Lonsdale, **_Vanity Fair_ editor

In real life, STOKR – real name Beca Mitchell –stands five foot two and nothing more.

In real life, there are also stories about her, each one getting more apocryphal than the last. It makes one wonder: how do you fit so much mischief in such a small body? She once famously asked out Mexican actress Karla Souza over Twitter, despite Souza being happily married. (Mitchell later settled for dinner at the Souzas, and has reportedly been invited back several times.) She has been notorious for giving paparazzi the slip by simply outrunning them _Fast and the Furious_ style. Just ask her friend Mackenzie Jagger, who experienced riding shotgun in one of these car chases and emerged understandably hysterical. There's that time she punched a Coachella festival-goer for throwing a racial slur at her friend and upcoming rapper Cynthia Rose. This happened right before a wild pool party set, which concluded with her being mobbed by a dozen half-naked girls. And oh, who could forget her explosive dalliances with Hollywood glitterati, who had no hesitations roasting her publicly after she dropped them for the next best thing? Notable aftermaths include: Caitlyn Tyler's apoplectic Youtube rant that named no names in favor of showing intimate vacation photos in Bali, Alana Mason's spiteful EP aptly titled _You Need to Go to Hell, _and Victoria's Secret model Elke Alizio's violent outburst at an exclusive Bahamas resort that reportedly cost Mitchell $10,000 in damages.

These are stories I couldn't have made up even if I tried. While all these sounds like a teenage boy's wet dream of Hollywood fame, in real life lawsuits have been filed and eyewitnesses abound. Indeed, when you've transcended the merciless electronic music machine to emerge as one of the most talked-about scenesters du jour of the year, truth is stranger than fiction.

The funny thing is, all controversies aside, Mitchell is notoriously reticent. Always irreverent, always mysterious, the little we know about her has always been from a scorned girlfriend or overeager paparazzi. Not once has she ever commented on making headlines, not even to defend herself. Getting her to talk about her personal life is next to impossible. The world has fawned over STOKR's luscious discography, the incisive but aloof interviews, the ravishing girlfriends – but no one can claim one personal factoid about this slick cat burglar of an artist. Mitchell comes and goes whenever she pleases. And when she does appear, it's with a cool smirk and an unpremeditated, secretive apartness– more often than not, bearing a track that invariably becomes a hit.

And this is the only thing that has eclipsed everyone's fascination of Mitchell's infamy (and her maddening imperviousness to it): her music. As STOKR, she had seamlessly bridged the gap between the rowdy YOLO-swearing kids and their more highbrow East London counterparts. It's a rare sonic success that very few have achieved, and she comfortably lies in this category along with notable names like Daft Punk and Disclosure. Her lifestyle reflects the same balance. 1 million people follow her rather-bare Twitter account. At the same time, she has enough street cred to play Boiler Room and Ultra Music Festival. She's often seen in the company of movie stars, but she also co-headlined The Weeknd's massive Glastonbury concert last year. Just last December she posed on a playful campaign for Adidas Originals, rocking street wear in colorful pop hues on a road trip-themed shoot. That same month she was featured in _CLASH Magazine, _where she talked about the making of _Fleeting Pleasures – _a total West Coast of a second album, horny, salacious, and the complete opposite of her smooth-talking first album _Are You Sure About This?_ "_Are You Sure _is glamorous, but it's sleazy. It's the glossy record you play right before midnight, when you're circling all the drunk girls going wild on the dance floor," she was quoted as saying. "_Fleeting Pleasures _is the sequel. It's what you want to hear when you're already impatiently tearing apart some girl's dress in the back of a limo. I went for tense and needy lyrics, set in a background that's absolutely polished and sharp. _Fleeting Pleasures _is a fucking savage of a gentleman." From the little we know, it's very easy to conclude that Mitchell could have easily been describing herself.

**8:20 am, Residual Heat Records, Burbank**

One of the most breathless moments in _Vanity Fair'_s NYC headquarters was the moment Mitchell's publicist Luke Gainsbourg agreed on an exclusive 12-hour pass– and on the day she's moving to New York, no less.

The appointment was 9 am. But when I was shown to one of the studios in the compound, Mitchell's already there, intently working on the sound booth with headphones on. She's the picture of street cool: tight black tank top, artfully loose camo jacket, ripped denim jeans, all-white Nikes. She's perfectly fine with multitasking. Mitchell is primarily STOKR, but her daily grind also involves unlocking interesting depths out of any promising artist's sound.

"I'm not very good with talking about myself," is one of the very first things she tells me. "But whatever you see today, don't hold back."

We are at the studio because Mitchell is meeting Emily Junk. Junk is the first promising talent she had brought to Residual Heat Records; and now with Junk's accolades (Song of the Summer award for _Flashlight _at the 2015 VMAs, and supporting Charlie XCX's London concert last September) she is irrefutable proof of Mitchell's wunderkind production chops. Today, Junk is coming in to hear an in-progress track for her second album, which they have been working on for two months now.

The room starts to fill up as we get closer to 9 am. Mitchell greets everyone by name, giving out fist bumps and bantering with sound engineers. When Junk arrives, Beca is pulled in an exuberant hug.

"This is dope!" the excitable pop singer later gushes at the track, which is dance-y, light as a feather, yet emotionally rich – exactly like Junk. "I love what you did! There are so many complex layers to it. Oh my god, Beca, you captured _me!_" Mitchell could only laugh as the brunette grabs her excitedly again.

**10:44 am, curb outside Residual Heat Records, Burbank**

While we wait under the hot California sun, Mitchell places a call to manager and Residual Heat's head honcho, Keegan Murphy. "It's transcendental. She adored it to bits," she reports on Junk's new single. "She's ready for BBC. I'm also working with Luke to put this on whatever coming-of-age movie is going on Sundance. Yeah, thanks, man. I'll see you tonight."

Gainsbourg shortly arrives in an all-black Hummer. Also tagging along, fresh from New York, is a severely jetlagged Stacie Conrad: up-and-coming New York choreographer, and Mitchell's oft-rumored beau. Conrad has the enviable position of being the producer's bestie: it's a TV-worthy close friendship that gave rise to several adoring fanfiction and photo blogs of them roughhousing in the red carpet. I quickly discover the appeal of their faux-bromance when Conrad hilariously tries to hug Mitchell, in all the lewd ways she knew how, making the sturdy car wobble.

"I missed you," Conrad purrs with a perfectly straight face, when Mitchell finally managed to squirm away. "I've missed the feel of your silky thighs wrapping around my head as I savor your –"

"Jesus. Keep it in your pants, baby." Mitchell is flushed from laughing, as were the rest of us; you'd want to be stuck with this merry gang on a long road trip. "Hey, Cath, we're not dating. She just loves to express her sexuality. Seriously, I've been explaining this to the press for ages."

"Come on, we need to give people something to speculate about." Conrad throws me a wink at the rearview mirror. "Cath, you're getting all this, right?"

"Stace, you make my work way harder than it already is," Gainsbourg reprimands jokingly, in his calm British accent. "You have no idea how much I've already spent to make all your compromising photos with Becky go away."

"Wow, you actually pay for those? So how much will I get if I decide to leak our kinky sex video?"

"I have never slept with Stacie," Mitchell shouts empathetically in my direction. "Just getting that out of the way despite whatever you'll see Stacie doing to me from this point forward, thank you very much."

Eventually I learn why these three had such an easy rapport: they have all been buddies since college, at a university which name Mitchell had been initially reluctant to reveal. But with much prodding and supplying from the others, she eventually cracks – and provides me a surprisingly frank narrative.

* * *

Born Rebecca Elise Mitchell in a quiet suburb in Portland, she describes her childhood as "completely normal". Her dad was a college professor and her mom was an accountant. When her parents divorced at seven, her dad quietly left Portland and did not argue custody.

Her mother did everything to shield Mitchell from the loss – she was always present for dinner and social functions despite work, and even found time to teach Mitchell guitar and music appreciation on weekends."My mom's one of the coolest people I know," she says. "She hated when it was quiet, so she'd often blast records in the house. She had Rolling Stones, Portishead, The Clash, definitely New Order. A lot of them eventually influenced my music."

Her mother quickly noticed her daughter's above-average knack for playing instruments, and constantly encouraged her to pursue a music career despite their modest living conditions. "For most of high school, I was the drummer in this alt-rock band called Gibbons. We were nothing special. Just good at pretending we're cool," Mitchell grins. "Our frontman was a good-looking jock, so schoolmates often invited us to parties." She often had to rent a drum kit for these events; she came up with the money by shoveling ice off neighbors' driveways or helping out at the local auto body shop. "I hardly had to lift anything, that's what the jack lifts were for," she hastily adds, seeing my incredulous look. "I was useful because I fit easily under the low riders. And I was good at applying decals."

Tragedy struck when her mother died in a car accident. When the police came to their tiny Portland flat, Mitchell was eighteen, going off to community college. She was suddenly alone.

"My life did a complete 360. The fact that nothing prepared me for made it even worse," Mitchell recalls. "My friends were going to college, my girlfriend was moving to California, the world went on at its usual pace – except for me. I was never the same."

On a whim she decided to sell the apartment. She left no forwarding address. When her dad found her a year later, it was at Fullerton, CA, where she worked at a record shop by day and moonlighted as a DJ at a gritty underground club on weekend nights. Her dad, horrified at her living conditions, persuaded her to come with him in Atlanta, where she was coerced to try college for a year.

To Mitchell's surprise, college was immensely enjoyable. She joined the Barden University Bellas, her college's all-girl a capella group, and actually played a big part in their first win at the National A Cappella Championships in New York. (Yes, this actually exists). It was the first of a long championship streak for the Bellas, who just snagged their seventh championship title last June. She was also able to make close friends, including Cynthia Rose, Conrad and Junk – all fellow Bella alumni.

At the end of the year she applied as an office assistant for Residual Heat Records, already headed by Keegan Murphy. The demos she sent got her foot in the door. Now resigned to life as a nomad, Mitchell left Atlanta for LA – and, as the story goes, impressed Murphy on her second month with a pitch for Snoop Dogg's 2009 Christmas album.

"I didn't promote Beca as a regular immediately. That's not the way we do things around here," Murphy says with a chuckle. "Few months after that, she brought in Emily (Junk), presenting me this song they collaborated on, and I was all like, 'okay, I guess we're giving you a desk.' Then _When Tomorrow Comes_ topped Billboard's Hot 100 for four weeks, and I couldn't deny it anymore – this punk can do what I do, maybe even better. I'm a little jealous. But yeah, okay, I was blessed too. So I'm like, 'fine, you're getting an office.'"

Murphy's gamble on his protégé was well-worth it. Three years later, at twenty-three, STOKR's celebrity imploded. Her claim to fame happened a little differently than other artists on Residual Heat's roster: she produced and lent her voice on two tracks from The Black Keys' fifth album, _Putting Out Fires_.

When _Rolling Stone_ called the album "one of this generation's most important rock contributions to date", and _SPIN_ gushed over the addition of the recklessly sure female vocals that, quote-unquote, "would make Beth Gibbons sit up and notice", all bets were off. The two tracks, _Save Me from Me _and _Alpha,_ both scored No.1 in the next few weeks. Even before _Putting Out Fires _won a Grammy, Beca Mitchell already found herself the center of attention. "The Black Keys has always been Dan (Auerbach) and Patrick (Carney), and all their previous albums were co-written and produced by Brian (Burton). So when the two tracks I worked on rose faster than everything else in that album, I was initially alarmed," Mitchell muses. "Dan and Patrick are my good friends. It was amazing enough that when I showed them the basic outline of those songs on a lark, they were impressed. Then Brian came in, suggested giving it a woman's touch, and that's how we all ended up collaborating. But I was bothered that the songs changed too much of the band's essence. It was the first time The Black Keys have deviated from their signature sound, which they've already perfected all the way back in 2008. I didn't want to break the world's definition of The Black Keys."

Thankfully, The Black Keys regarded her contribution as a significant breakthrough. Her apprehensions were silenced when, instead of redefining The Black Keys, they formed side band Gray Matter instead – a homage to _Breaking Bad._

Sensing ripe opportunity, Residual Heat Records announced Mitchell's first EP as STOKR during the same month. When it came out the same year – in the form of the sleek-sounding _Are You Sure About This?_ – the ten tracks on it sufficiently blew everyone's mind. "We didn't want to gamble on that pseudonym, but as it turns out, STOKR belongs to the dance floor. Newcomer Beca Mitchell is a woman of many hats. Aside from suave garage rock, crafty electronic music is one she wears comfortably. She elevates the rather bland untz-untz game of EDM and turns it into an art form," _NME _writes. Another glowing review from _Pitchfork: _"Beca Mitchell was second-guessing herself with that album title, and with good reason. If you were expecting something along the lines of her grungy first act _Save Me from Me, _you will be horribly disappointed. But all is not lost, because surprise, surprise – as promising electro-artist STOKR, Mitchell immediately converts you to club music. And not just any club music: her retro-futurist style features randy lyrical poetry set against a musical background that blends the best of 80's synth and playfulness of chillwave. Her ability to leap across the radically-different genres of rock to electronic music is bold and endlessly fascinating. Without a doubt, _Are You Sure About This? _is one of the most confident and droll electronic albums we've heard since LCD Soundsystem's _This Is Happening_."

From then on, Mitchell's assimilation into electronic music royalty was certain. In the last couple of years, _Are You Sure About This? _scored a Grammy, as well as its successor, _Fleeting Pleasures_. A slew of her singles (often in collaboration with fellow purveyors of cool such as Chet Faker, Lana Del Rey and Frank Ocean) quickly ruled radio airplay, with _Midnight Comedown _recently hitting double-platinum. Her second album's promotional tour – largely spent at sold-out arenas and celebrity private jets – concluded successfully a month ago.

**11:18 pm, Beachwood Canyon**

Mitchell's apartment is airy, dominated by wood and shades of gray. At the pool deck, drinking wine, are at least four or five girls who eagerly wave as we pass. ("See, this is why I'm moving. People I don't know hang out in my house all the time," she comments, with a hint of weariness.) Inside, the glass walls are artfully decked with murals of concert posters, such as Jimi Hendrix's 1968 concert in New York and Pink Floyd's '77 concert in Oakland, CA. In Mitchell's bedroom are several columns of vinyl records stacked from floor to ceiling.

We're here because Mitchell is actually _packing_. Or at least, haphazardly attempting to. She's tossing possessions pell-mell into a small leather suitcase, despite Gainsbourg informing her that her P.A. will pack everything "from your electronic thingamajigs to your unwashed knickers".

"The world we live in now – unbelievable," she mutters, more to Conrad, who was lazily sprawled on the huge bed. "Like I'd ever get my knickers folded by anybody else."

"Sha. The last time you moved, I folded your knickers. I even stole one for Chloe." Chloe is a Barden Bella, Conrad later explains, and a close friend from their college days.

In the end Mitchell leaves the brunt of packing to the P.A., except a few items. She packs her own clothes – not the ones from clothing sponsors, but ratty sweatshirts and PJs. She boxes the controller setup and computer from her desk. And she packs personal mementos: her Bella scarf, a box of photographs, another box of unfinished lyrics, a portable Crosley record player.

The PA, Dax, reads her the rest of her schedule. It's strangely booked for someone who needs to go on a 7 am plane the next day. "That's why Stacie's here," Gainsbourg chuckles. "She's the only one who loves Becky enough to drag her hungover ass onto that plane."

**12:26 pm, Henry Hotel, Hollywood**

Lunch is spent in a swanky press conference. This is where Gainsbourg publicizes Mitchell's official relocation to New York. Everyone from Residual Heat Records, of course, already knew. Keegan Murphy and Gainsbourg fields most of the questions – will Mitchell be striking out on her own and creating her own label? (No – Mitchell will simply be heading a new indie music division of RHR in NYC, complete with her own studio and team.) Is Mitchell's contract with RHR over? (No – she's actually working on a five-track EP with Gray Matter under the label.) Will this impact the concerts she's headlining in the next few months? (Hardly – being a New Yorker wouldn't change her ability to sing in front of a crowd, Murphy answers a little sarcastically.)

From a raised table Mitchell casually surveys the numerous press, impassive smirk firmly in place. She drinks her scotch and soda with no regard for time and hearsay. The only questions she answers are those related to her reasons for moving. Musicians 'move to' LA to be big, one reporter says. It's never 'move out of'. Mitchell is going against a proven tide, one which has actually launched her career – wouldn't this be a disservice not only to her label, but to her fans? "I can't be the first artist who moved out of LA. You guys are taking this way too seriously," she says, prompting light chuckles from the assembly. "I'm moving because I've become lazy. All my songs carry values I no longer believe in. I'm no longer passing my own standards."

Is this really just about sonic growth? I ask her after the conference wraps up, over steaks and more scotch. Because as of the moment, STOKR's music has already passed the world's standards – despite her versatility throughout two albums and numerous collaborations, the essence of her sound is constantly distinct. Through an incredible amount of talent she had also stayed relevant, something almost impossible to do considering the breakneck pace of the EDM scene. But Mitchell shakes her head; it's hardly about growth. "It's about curiosity," she explains. "I like learning something new about myself."

**4:26 pm, Malibu Beach**

The 'meeting' listed in Mitchell's schedule for 3 pm turns out to be a private beachfront soiree, hosted by none other than brilliant wordsmith and Arctic Monkeys frontman, Alex Turner. It's somebody's birthday and the party is starting early: everyone's chugging bottles of Dom Pérignon and passing around all the usual stimulants.

On a makeshift deck in the middle of the revelers is Turner himself, barefoot, his slicked-back coif and open white shirt resplendent as he serenades the crowd in an impromptu acoustic set. AM drummer Matt Helders is walking around with a tequila-loaded water gun, dispensing shots to giggling girls in skimpy bikinis. He jokingly berates Mitchell for not wearing one before he pushes her to go onstage.

Before she could say anything, Turner yells from the deck. "Oi! What's that panty-chaser doing here?" A couple of hours later he himself cheerfully announces her unplanned performance to the raucous throng. "STOKR is moving to NYC tomorrow! If you're one of those suckers not invited to her farewell party later, then it's your last chance to show her how much you care."

Mitchell, now having downed several glasses of whiskey, takes up a guitar and busts out a low-key rendition of her already-minimalist single "Pillow Talk". "_Tell me something I don't know / I already know the way you grasp my neck, inhale my breath / from that one time we touched lips /Do you cry yourself to sleep? / Name all the lies that you have lived / Orgasms that you've faked with men who never pleased / I dumped a girl on her eighteenth,"_ she sings in her clear alto, with the awkward honesty of a slick charmer who's finally putting all her cards on the table_."I like the way you stare, those piercing green eyes, perfect blonde hair / Hold me close like this / 'Til the daylight creeps / And I never see you leave." _

She later admits she rarely plays that single now. "It makes me cringe a little. I wrote it as a challenge – to see if I can write an honest-to-god love song." So she finds "_When you part your legs I weep / Just wanna reach but you're a hurricane I can't be swept with"_ romantic? "And this is why it's my only love song," she points out with a grin. "Apparently I can't write them if my life depended on it. You could say it's about romance, in the loosest sense of the word, but it's also about lust. I can never think of one without thinking about the other."

And what of the girl with green eyes and perfect blonde hair? Beca's grin grows wider at this, obviously reliving a specific memory. "I'd rather keep her to myself," she finally says. It's the only question she doesn't answer that day.

**11:39 pm, Red Door, north of Hollywood**

Tonight Mitchell's playing at Red Door, an intimate underground club that actually involves a trapdoor leading down to a basement. Only, instead of Hannibal Lecter, it's dim lighting, luxurious leather couches, and sleek glass countertops waiting on the other side. This is also her farewell party, and rules do not apply here: the air is thick with smoke from so much Silk Cut Spartacuses, and bottles of Krug flow freely, delivered by long-legged, exotic-looking women in little black dresses. On the dance floor the rave is ongoing, alive and wild as all the cool kids dance and grope to pulsating bass. Major Lazer had just started their set.

Everywhere I look, I recognize someone. Sam Smith, Cara Delevinge, Deorro, Emily Junk, the highly-esteemed James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem – even right now Mitchell is being chatted up by the hypnotizing Lana Del Rey, cigarette in hand, ethereal even in a boho-chic dress and boots. "Baby, do you really have to go?" Del Rey says, kissing Mitchell's cheek in greeting. "You haven't even taken me dancing."

"I'm just moving, babe, not dying." Mitchell returns the gesture. "And the next time I come by, I'll wear you out." Another friend of the puffy-lipped singer joins them, and jokes that they really look good together: maybe they should date?

"Oh, please," Mitchell snorts. "Lizzy is out of my league. That's not gonna happen."

"You never asked," Del Rey says lightly, blowing a cloud of smoke with detached finality into the producer's face before walking away.

After all the networking Mitchell is finally ushered to the open booth by Keegan Murphy. She stands in the middle of everyone with a smile, waiting for the cheers that greeted her to die down. Stacie Conrad, standing almost next to her, hands her a glass of Jack and Coke. "You haven't roofied this, right?" Mitchell asks, before draining the glass to another round of cheers.

"When you gonna sleep with Stacie?" someone in the crowd yells.

"Hopefully never," Mitchell laughs, wrapping her arm affectionately around Conrad's waist. "Alright, everyone. Let's do this."

As STOKR, she's a much more intense beast. She powers through the next two hours of her live set, going through her intuitive, textured, retro-rock-influenced dance music with intense concentration, even as she effortlessly sings the cunning, sarcastic lyrics. Everyone's dancing like puppets on acid. At one point people just start chanting: STOKR, STOKR, STOKR, and with one hand still on the dials, Mitchell raises a fist, closes her eyes, and lets the wave of her music reach an agonizing crescendo before hitting the drop that sends everyone into a feverish frenzy.

No matter where she moves, this is where she belongs.

* * *

_One month later_

_Pampelonne Beach, St. Tropez_

Beca woke up with the warm midday sun on her face.

Before she even opened her eyes, she tried her best to assess the surroundings. The sound of waves, the saltwater tang of the breeze coming in, heady smell of coconut, luxurious sheets on her skin: she was at the beach. She groaned at the bright sunlight and tried to roll over, only to encounter a discarded bikini top against her face. Realizing she was naked, she tried to piece together the events of the previous evening.

After a full minute of coming up with a blank, she gave up.

She dazedly raised her head a fraction of an inch to look around. The room decor was vaguely familiar – she was at least in her own rented villa, probably just in a different room. Rolled-up dollar bills and white powder littered the bedside table. Beyond the bed, there were only heels and her boots on the floor. Where the fuck was her clothes?

An arm suddenly reached out to coil around her bare chest; with a start, Beca realized that she had a bedmate.

Looking further, she corrected herself: _bedmates_.

The first girl was dark-haired, long and thin as a reed. The other girl was blonde, lying a little above her, her flat stomach almost cushioning Beca's head. Both were gorgeous. Both were also naked.

One of the blonde's breasts was peeking out of the covers. Beca twisted to catch the nipple in her mouth before she could even register what she was doing. The other girl woke up giggling.

"Hey, I have to go," Beca said, in a tone that she hoped was apologetic enough. "You and, uh, your friend can stay, though." The blonde girl nodded. "Great. I'll have someone bring up food." Beca forced herself to get off the massive bed, padding barefoot to the full-length closet across the bedroom to look for a robe. "Brunch okay?"

"Sure. But I can't eat anything with butter, I'm on a Mediterranean diet," the girl answered, and Beca fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Can you tell your cook to substitute olive butter instead? And I can only drink almond milk. Not water or juice. And, like, the organic one. If you have Trader Joe, that's the best – it's very artisanal."

"_Mon dieu_, it's almost one," another voice said, and when Beca looked around, the dark-haired girl –French, from the looks of it – was also awake. "_Tu es en train de partir?_ We weren't done with you yet," she continued with a pout.

"This is just as difficult for me, girls. But make yourselves at home." Beca, having found a robe, proceeded to walk out of the bedroom and was finally able to roll her eyes. Jesus, these girls and their I-only-eat-organic routine...as she rounded the corner to the staircase she almost bumped into the butler, who quickly stepped aside to avoid his tray of food from getting overturned.

"Sorry," she quickly apologized. "Oliver, right?"

The butler, a tanned guy in an open white shirt, answered with the slightest accent, "Olivier, miss. I was just about to bring this to you."

"No worries. I'll take that." Beca took the tray off his hands, despite his initial mild noise of protest. "Can you also bring up food to the left wing bedroom? Mediterranean diet, has to be organic, all that jazz." He quickly nods. "Any chance you have my phone?"

"It's at the coffee table upstairs, along with your car keys and wallet. The girls' clothes are also ready – it will be sent up to their room as well."

"Man, you are efficient. Thanks." It never failed to amaze Beca how professional these service guys were, considering Olivier hardly mentioned the fact that she and the girls left their clothes strewn all over the pool deck last night before they even got inside the house. "If they're still here by four, you know the drill, right?"

The drill was a sleek black envelope containing vouchers to any local luxury department store, which was handed to girls as a cue to leave whenever they have overstayed their welcome. Luke often briefed Beca's attending staff of this procedure whenever she traveled. "The envelope. Of course."

Satisfied, Beca set off for the top floor. Half of it was the biggest bedroom in the villa, where she had slept for the past two days. A glass sliding door led to the other half of the floor, to a spacious balcony where she often had breakfast. The villa was located on the top of a wooded hill, and so the view was breathtaking – crisp blue sea to the left, and to the right, palm trees and the busy three-mile strip of beach below. Beca barely glanced at them as she set down the tray on the balcony table; she groaned at the first taste of coffee, and she savored another swallow before she began going through the day's emails. She had just poured her second cup of coffee when Luke called.

"Hey Becky," he greeted. "I called you at twelve like you said, but nada. Thought I'd have to send someone to fish you out of the sea."

"Sorry about that. I overslept."

"I'm sure. People were tweeting like mad last night about your Caves du Roy gig. Was it fun?"

"Oh, you have no idea." Beca smirked as she took a bite of marmalade-laden toast. Luke often traveled with her on out-of-town gigs, but last night he had to stay in LA for the premiere of _Rant_, the Sundance film featuring Emily's new single. "How's the reception on Em's track?"

"Snowballing. _Pitchfork _and _Rolling Stone _just featured it, and Mercedes Benz wants it for their new ad. Em's over the moon about it."

"Cool. Goddamn Dax didn't email me my schedule. What am I supposed to do today?"

"I'll go yell at him. But first, read your _Vanity Fair _feature. I had Olivier put a copy in your bedside drawer."

She had completely forgotten about Cath Lonsdale's article. "I don't have to. How is it?"

"Well, it's not a train wreck. Cath actually managed to hide the fact that you're a giant douchenozzle, so we're safe."

Beca rolled her eyes. "I can fire you, you know."

"Okay, okay," Luke laughed. "From a PR standpoint, it's a fluff piece – she painted you as this cool, mysterious, talented chap, which couldn't be further from the truth, you know? Anyway, I haven't seen the numbers, but Keegan says your iTunes downloads have taken a giant leap just today. A ton of people are also sharing the cover with very positive feedback. From a friend standpoint, you're a pretentious man-whore who's full of shit. But you'll be alright."

"You won't be. I'm replacing you with Dax."

"You know he's useless. And you hired me to keep you on your toes, love." Luke cleared his throat. "By the way, you need to call Stacie."

Beca closed her eyes, but did not respond.

"I got an earful of seductive yelling – she didn't even know you were in St. Tropez! Why you avoiding her, homes?"

"Don't talk black to me, Luke. You're British, for fuck's sake."

"Becky, just call her, okay? She's worried about you."

She sighed. "I will. Thanks, Lukey."

"Bugger," Luke chuckled before ending the call. Beca had barely set down her phone before it started ringing again. To her surprise, it was Chloe.

Beca and Chloe had remained connected, mostly through calls and Facebook, even after Beca had become an overnight sensation and Chloe had moved back to her hometown in Philadelphia. The redhead had gone on to med school at UPenn, and is currently on her second year of internship at Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania. Beca had not heard from her in the last two months.

"Hey, baby," she answered tentatively, only to be met by a shriek.

"I can't believe you're moving to New York and didn't tell me!"

"Stacie said she told you." Beca held the phone a little further from her ear, because she was sure the excitable redhead wasn't done shouting.

"No, she didn't. I had to read about it on _Vanity Fair_ like a commoner!"

"Chloe, darling, with those looks you're hardly a commoner."

"Don't play that Hollywood Casanova shtick with me, Mitchell, I'm still deeply offended. But I'm so excited for you!" Chloe sounded breathless. "You're going to be a train ride away from Philly! You and me and Stacie can totes hang out! And we can meet up with other aca-people living in NYC – Jesse's there too, and Unicycle – oh my god! How could I have forgotten Br –"

"Breathing," Beca interrupted, smiling at Chloe's enthusiasm nevertheless. "Calm down, Red."

"How can I? I'll be seeing you very soon!" The redhead's eagerness dropped a few notches. "Hopefully without a bunch of skanks this time."

The last time they had seen each other was a year ago in New York. Beca was in town for the music video shoot of _On Fire_, a Drake single that she collaborated on. Chloe had visited their studio in Chelsea to find her on her fourth take of lip-syncing the chorus, visibly uneasy while a half-dozen girls, scantily-clad in firefighter outfits, writhed and gyrated around her. "Definitely not," Beca laughed. "Sorry about that. For the record, I had Keegan veto that music video immediately. It's Drake's thing, but it's too racy for me."

"No need to explain, I was kidding. I'm sure it's all part of the business." A slight pause. "Beca?"

"Yeah?"

"...I never knew about your mom. I'm sorry." The concern was evident in Chloe's tone.

"It's cool. It was a very long time ago."

"I know, but if you ever need to talk about it or anything else, I'm just here."

"I know that, baby," Beca said, touched as always by the redhead's incredible amount of sympathy. "Thanks. Let me know when you'll be in New York, I'll take you out."

"How about you just call me whenever you're free? You know I'd drop everything for you," Chloe said, half-seriously. "Love you."

Beca swallowed – six years of friendship with Chloe and she still did not have the ability to easily say those words back to her, or anyone else for that matter. "Ditto." She let Chloe hang up before dialing Stacie, sighing in resignation as she did so.

Stacie answered on the first ring.

"Love your _Vanity Fair _cover," she purred in her usual honeyed tone.

"Thanks." The magazine shoot featured Beca in a variety of slim-cut suits, savoring drinks and cigars at a speakeasy bar, collar opened and hair let loose in waves. The makeup team put on more eyeliner than she would have preferred, and pretending to look 'moody' for the photographer was a real challenge; but everyone from the shoot was very professional, and she enjoyed polishing off the endless cocktails she posed with. The final outcome also pleased her. She had explicit instructions against digital retouching, which the post-production team thankfully followed – yet Beca still looked radiant in the rushes, carefully blurring the line between sexy and masculine.

"Very fuckable. It only makes me want you more."

"And there it is."

"Darling, I know you're avoiding me."

"Why would you think that?" Beca grimaced as soon as she said the words out loud – there was really no point playing dumb, because this was Stacie. On to her, right from the start.

"Because you're supposed to be living in New York now, and yet I haven't seen you since I dropped you off at Four Seasons a month ago."

"My new apartment is still under renovation. And I've got all these gigs –"

"Baby," Stacie cooed, her tone starting to get dangerously impatient. "Stop making excuses. You were the one who wanted to get away from all the partying."

Beca exhaled. "I don't think I can change, Stace."

"You will, if you stay with me." Stacie's voice was much kinder. "Come home, baby. You're wasting your time with these floozies. I'm better than all of them combined."

"Yeah, yeah. Not that I'd ever know."

"Oh, you will, eventually. This has to happen. Our vaginas have a real connection," Stacie snickered. "When are you coming back?"

Beca looked out at the azure sea right in front of her. Didn't she want to get away from this – all the flash, the insipid women, the uppers, the noise? She can't go on like this. She can't stagnate here.

"Tomorrow," she finally said. "I'll be at your door, first thing tomorrow."


	5. Isolation

_Tomorrow_

"I don't know where my apartment is."

On the other end, Luke heaved out a huge sigh. "Christ, Becky. Really making the most out of that holiday, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry and all that. I know you sent me pictures and stuff. Hang on." With one hand still holding her phone to her ear, Beca slowly parsed through the emails on her laptop. "Err...what's the subject line again?"

"You let me pick out your new apartment, had me manage the interior design, and then signed the lease without seeing it or even knowing where it is?!" he replied disdainfully. "Were you even aware you bought a five-M condo?"

"I don't need to know all these things, okay? I just need –"

"I emailed you a hundred details about the apartment. I even had Dax email you again before you left Four Seasons just to be sure –"

"Dax hasn't emailed me anything in the last ten days. Subject line, Lucas. _Today_."

"Then fire him. I do the bulk of his work anyway, so why not pay me double to remember all the little details of your life, like your home address and brand of tampon –"

"Why are you so bitchy?" Beca whined.

"Because I am at an auction!" he hissed back. "Judd Apatow just unloaded his place in Malibu. And right now, there's a bunch of judgmental old hussies looking at me instead of that hideous 1950s Grete Jalk sofa."

"Oops." Beca tried to sound contrite, although she couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Sorry. You didn't have to quote the catalog, you stuffy ass."

"I'm going out." It was silent for a few moments, except for some rustling and voices in the background. "If I lose the Patek Philippe rose gold calatrava wristwatch, I'll kill you."

"Jeez. You know what? Forget the address. It's not like I can go there now, with renovations and all –"

"Becky," Luke growled in exasperation. "The renovations finished three weeks ago!"

"...oh." 'Coked up to my eyeballs the past month' would probably not be a very good excuse for missing that email – and besides, this is exactly why she hired Luke: to care for such petty details. "Uh, glad you took care of it, I guess? Good job, you."

"You were in Ibiza when I gave you the update – fuck, why do I even bother?" Silence on the other end again. "I just sent you a link. By all means, will you please check it out now?"

The link led to the Architectural Digest website. _Tour Beca Mitchell's New 4.5 Million TriBeCa Penthouse. _"What the fuck, you showed it off to Condé Nast?!"

"I called you for permission at Mykonos. It's good publicity – and, well, Keegan's mandate."

She could hardly remember going to Greece, let alone having all these phone calls with Luke. _Unbelievable_.

"Becky?"

She cleared her throat. "What?"

"…the Bebop just requested landing on JFK." The Bebop is their personal nickname for Beca's Cessna Citation Latitude, a gift from Residual Heat Records when she won her first Grammy.

"…and?"

"Are you on it?"

Beca yawned and leaned back on the reclined leather seat, looking around the toffee interiors and polished wood veneers of the cabin. "Yep."

"And you couldn't have mentioned this before you left La Môle?!"

"I really, really need you to stop scolding me."

"When you start remembering shit for a change, I'll consider," Luke huffed. "I'll have someone pick you up, he'll bring you straight to your place."

"Great. That's all I need. Thanks, Lukey."

"See what happens when you have reliable people? For the love of god, fire Dax! You can afford a hundred assistants now. Keegan's surprised you kept him for so long."

"Ugh. You're so efficient, I've completely forgotten about him."

"Better said in a pay raise, Becky."

"You're already one of the highest-paid publicists in LA. Don't be greedy."

"I had to try and dupe more money out of you, eh? Anyway, I'll line up interviews for a P.A. next week. Dax is a goddamn nitwit."

"Blubber."

Luke got the reference. "You fucking nerd," he chuckled, his irritation quickly disappearing. "Oddment."

"Tweak."

* * *

**Tour Beca Mitchell's New 4.5 Million TriBeCa Penthouse**

_Architectural Digest _| Text by **Gillian Kaplan **|Photos by **Ryan Osmond**

Beca Mitchell made waves last month by packing up for NYC (and dividing Residual Heat Records in the process), and now the two-time Grammy Award winner is ready to move into her new 25th floor residence. The penthouse, located in The Palasso in TriBeCa and bought for $4.5 million, required three months of complete renovation by Rockwell Group to suit the producer's tastes.

According to her publicist Lucas Gainsbourg, Mitchell – more popular by stage name STOKR – simply noted the following criteria for her new bachelorette pad: 1) Bright open space. 2) Garage setup - _Fast and the Furious._ 3) Nothing harsh. 4) Good acoustics. Since Mitchell is reportedly traveling the globe for the next two months as a much-needed vacation, it was up to lead architect Gerard Cohler to elevate these formless ideas into a luxurious, sleek home.

He rose to the occasion by doing a modern industrial redesign that can simply be summed up in one word: _cool_.

The whole floor plan's wide, airy interiors have a lot of pleasant au naturale light, coming mostly from the floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking panoramic view of downtown Manhattan. Cohler used a dark gray and white palette to accentuate the matte slate tile, with touches of warm wood and leather in fixtures and furniture to balance out the stark windows and ash marble pillars. Wood beams were also added to the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling to add more warmth.

The living room features stools, couches and leather lounge chairs from Alvar Aalto, as well as a 1970 cocktail table by Fernand Dresse and Arman side tables. All are arrayed on a custom-made Swedish rug from Hakimian. Mitchell is a known collector of boxing-style vintage concert posters, and on the adjoining wall, mounted on a free-hanging LED installation, is the best of her collection: an extremely rare museum-quality 1969 concert poster of Jimi Hendrix at the Seattle Center Coliseum. The conservation-framed LED displays, which also feature in other rooms of the penthouse, are especially designed by artist Erwin Redl in collaboration with Victor Hunt Designlab.

Off to one side is a fully-stocked bar with a J. Randall Powers bespoke liquor cabinet, the inside painted a rich matte crimson to better highlight Mitchell's favored scotches. The kitchen is outfitted with a Wolf range, hood, and ovens, as well as a fridge and undercounter liquor storage unit by Sub-Zero. The stone and wood countertops, cabinetry and stools are by Le Corbusier, and the dining table by the window – which seats four to six – is by Casamidy's.

The entire penthouse is equipped with an audiophile surround sound system by Focal. Cohler converted the two extra bedrooms into a fully-equipped studio and a private den, where the rest of Mitchell's conservation-framed poster collection is kept in recessed custom-made Le Corbusier file cabinets. A sliding door leads to the terrace, which has an elevated open-air Jacuzzi outfitted with Italian mosaic tiles and set in an ipe wood deck.

For the spacious loft-style second floor, Cohler installed a floating glass-and-teak staircase. He also added a single curved floating wall covered in Bergamo fabric to give privacy to the master bedroom, master bath, dressing room and walk-in closet. The master bedroom, which bathes in the same gorgeous natural lighting as the living room and dining room, has a dramatic view of the city as well. Tall, unobtrusive Poliform cerused-oak shelves house Mitchell's numerous records and books. All beddings and linen on the Bruno Moinard Éditions bed are from Pratesi, while the lovely gray carpet is by Beauvais.

In the master bath, a Kohler tub with Dornbracht fittings sits right next to the window. It is joined by a roomy circular shower with a 4-feet wide shower head, also from Dornbracht, and a double vanity. The white crystallized-glass floor is by Architectural Systems. Both master bath and bedroom lead to a walk-in closet and dressing room with Ebanista furnishings and Hakimian rugs.

The airy penthouse can be quickly transformed into a hushed enclave with Cohler's addition of discreet Pratesi shades. At night, controlled lighting by West Elm can turn the entire place from a serene home to party central with the turn of a knob, depending on Mitchell's mood.

To complete all the amenities of her new place, The Palasso grants Mitchell private elevator access, garage access, fitness center membership, and access to the rooftop pool. Hotel amenities such as housekeeping, concierge, private chef, and maid services are also included.

"Beca is intuitive. It's one of the first things you learn about her. It bleeds into all aspects of her life, particularly her music, and it's important that the design reflects that," Cohler commented on the entire overhaul process. "She runs by instinct, and so unnecessariness gets to her – put in one bulb too much, or one record out of place, and she's bound to notice. On our first meeting I told her I had the incredible luck of designing her previous home in LA, when it was still owned by Keegan Murphy. She did not hesitate telling me that the house always felt too gregarious. She wanted her next home to have a more blasé vibe.

"Then she showed me this little paper, with these four vague phrases to summarize her vision, and between the two of us it somehow made complete sense. Luke [Gainsbourg] also provided some insight on her daily habits, which greatly helped with the final result. The interiors perfectly complement her high-rolling yet laidback lifestyle. It's as bold and contemporary as she is, but it's also intimate."

/

* * *

Intimate, though, was the last thing on her mind when she stepped off the elevator and entered the foyer.

A chill settled upon her before she could even get to the middle of the living room. Low lights were turned on despite the late afternoon, and the dim light managed to make the penthouse both expansive and claustrophobic. There was a hint of wrapping plastic in the thick orchid-scented potpourri wafting from somewhere. The carefully-arranged bowl of chocolates in the coffee table, probably meant to be welcoming, didn't diminish the iciness of the place. The large-scale view of downtown Manhattan, supposedly so dramatic and exciting, was oppressive and bleak. There was nothing in sight that she previously owned except the Louis Vuitton valise she arrived with. Nobody's house could be this excessive.

Something akin to panic was slowly building in her stomach. Overwhelmed, Beca let herself sink to the floor, burying her face into her clammy hands. This place is a tomb and she was nothing in its enormously consumerist wake. She had fucking turned into Patrick Bateman. Her fridge probably full of Perrier and tinned caviar and shit. It was all too fucking beautiful and synthetic and _soulless_ – the chrome sconces buffed to perfection, the rich leather chairs nobody has ever sat on, rugs that probably cost twelve thousand dollars apiece.

She needed to take the edge off.

* * *

A local friend of a friend of a trusted 'friend' from LA can supply her blow – pure as driven snow, he promised over the phone. She forced herself to bite back an eager agreement. _Think of that infuriating nasal drip. Sandpaper tongue. That time you fucked so hard you woke up with a broken clavicle. The sweet fucking rush in your veins. The best damn sex you've ever had. God, I can't stop thinking about it._

"No," she ground out through clenched teeth. "Just speed."

"Thirty minutes," he replied. "Send something up."

* * *

She only got off the floor when the pills arrived – Adderall in a literal silver platter, covered by a damn silver dome, sitting side-by-side with a complimentary bag of weed. The invoice was tucked underneath.

The rest of the tray brought by the butler contained dinner from the _New York Times_-lauded bistro downstairs: lobster bisque, lamb chops, crème brulee. Beca directed the butler to the cavernous kitchen and watched him arrange her meal on the dark walnut dining table, drugs and all. Dude even brought a bong. He quietly loaded it with tap water before setting it on the counter.

"Will that be all, Miss –"

"Beca. Just Beca." She pulled out a handful of bills for the dealer and handed it to him. More than anything, she wanted to be left alone.

* * *

She took her first pill right after dinner.

Half an hour later and she was fucking _rolling. _It was already dark out, and the soft lights of her new apartment bathed everything in a calm, inviting glow. She sprang up from the couch, blasting music and walking in circles, exploring everything her new place had to offer, finding the most interesting things: gigantic wood bowls from Pottery Barn. A poster of Blake Lively under her pillow, which Luke probably had Gerard put in as a fucking joke. At the den, a goosedown rug, soft as a shih tzu. Silk Ralph Lauren robes. Gold Italian handcrafted taps. Black sesame sherbet in the fridge. VPI Classic Direct turntable in her bedroom. A tall recessed safe programmed to her birthday, filled to the brim with bills. Neat rows of the best scotch at the bar. Balvenie. Glenlivet. Talisker. Laphroaig.

She settled on an armchair and smoked a bowl, facing the glorious New York skyline, and wondered what the fuck she was being so anxious about earlier. She was no longer poor. Hasn't been for the last four years. She came from smuggling leftovers from outdoor cafe tables to _this. _She hasn't eaten stale bread in ages. She had boxing memberships and a private garage with a sweet Ferrari and Ducati. A 25th floor penthouse so baller it had a fucking outdoor jacuzzi. The world is full of yes men and stunning women. No one could ever take this away from her. She even had more time now. Nowhere she was fucking supposed to be. Not that she was even aspiring for anything else at this point. Life is a stupid repetitive story about nothing – always expository, no obvious climax, and certainly no fucking end in sight. She could get a cat. Have it survive on the finest scraps. Get it a fucking nanny when she was out of town. But what if she died of an overdose? Until anyone notices, the hungry cat would probably eat her face. How many real friends did she have? Stacie, Luke, Chloe – shit, she promised to go see Stacie. Her best friend. Who probably waited the entire day for her to show up. She had broken so many promises already. She missed Christmas with her dad and Sheila. Dax sent them Bergdorf scarves and Savile Row ties. Dad had joked that she probably wanted them to go hang themselves. She should drop by Barden sometime. Grin at the surprised, overjoyed look on his face. Life is a breeze and she was ecstatic about the future. Em performing on Saturday Night Live next week. Dinner at Mugaritz. Gigs at London and Perth next quarter. Fat Amy getting hitched this March.

She had so much clarity of thought and no one to share it with. When was the last time she really shared _anything_?

* * *

It was daylight when Beca popped her fourth pill. Now completely comfortable in her new home, she spent the whole morning in her bedroom. She put on Jimi Hendrix's _Are You Experienced _on the record and stretched out on the lavish bed. Eyes closed and yet completely aware of her surroundings, she let the music lull her into a temporary peace that lasted until early afternoon.

When she came to, she went downstairs. A cleaning maid, clearly concerned about her appearance, offered to make her something to eat.

"Water," she murmured, shuffling to the kitchen counter. The sun hurt her eyes.

She smoked a cigarette in the balcony and washed down two more pills before the maid left.

* * *

Aside from the fact that she couldn't feel her face, Beca felt completely fine. She couldn't have eaten or slept if her life depended on it; nothing mattered except that euphoric feeling. She simply _existed. _It was all she needed.

Her mind was a buzzing hive of excitement. She went to her new studio for only the second time, heart racing at the sight of the drum kit and electronic guitars neatly lined up on one end of the room. She started flicking on switches on the console, plugging in jacks, adjusting monitors and knobs.

There had been a lot of songs Beca wanted to cover for the longest time. She didn't intend to release them commercially or even lay down electronic beats on the tracks; it was simply something she wanted to do for herself. She started out by listing songs, then narrowing them down to the ones she could best work with. Before long she was furiously outlining arrangements on paper, occasionally looking up lyrics and chords on her laptop. There was a lot to be done.

The second part was the actual execution. Beca sat on the recording booth, tuning guitars while warming up her voice with techniques she learned from her Bella days. She could almost hear Aubrey's mockery in her head: _can you go even more out of pitch, Mitchell?_ She allowed herself a chuckle. She hasn't thought of the blonde in a very long time.

She tried a few verses of The Strokes' _I'll Try Anything Once, _figuring the arrangement was the easiest: _There is a time when we all fail / Some people take it pretty well / Some take it all out on themselves / Some they just take it out on friends_. It was difficult without a sound engineer manning the console; Beca had to duck back out to the monitors and replay the recording a few times before getting the balance right. After that it was on to the full vocals and keyboard, then recording a very minimal percussion track with the vocals playing on her headphones. Hot Chip's _Need You Now, _Arctic Monkey's _505_, Carly Simon's _Nobody Does It Better_, Depeche Mode's _My Little Soul_...after four hours of playing, drumming and singing, her voice was hoarse. She took a break, made herself an old-fashioned in the bar, and swallowed another Adderall. She'd lost track of how much she had taken. She didn't care.

By five in the morning she was hitting the drums to her interpretation of Joy Division's _Isolation, _pouring out her frustrations on the snare and cymbals as her own voice echoed in her ears. _Mother, I tried, please believe me / I'm doing the best that I can / I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through / I'm ashamed of the person I am._

* * *

Beca often found it difficult to be a fan of her own music. There were always so many constructs to satisfy: her own aesthetics, Keegan's, the general public's. Restaurants or boutiques would play her tracks out of courtesy whenever she came in, and she'd be caught off-guard by the exhausted undertone only she could seem to hear. Her second album was especially aggravating – an attention whore of a record, she found it sounding more and more shallow and pretentious as time went by.

But when she finally sat and listened to the eight final tracks, single-handedly performed and completed in the past fourteen hours, she couldn't contain her pride. Her voice was raw in places, and parts of the guitar track would have to be polished; still, she was generally pleased with the outcome. She sounded like she had fucking heart. All was not lost.

* * *

It was warm enough for an hour in the tub. Beca stripped off all her clothes and dived in; her senses heightened to an unnatural sharpness, she could actually feel the cool water sloshing pleasantly against her oversensitive skin. Christ, even her bathroom had a view. She inhaled repeatedly from her bong, getting more light-headed by the minute, and let her mind drift.

When the jitters started, she fully submerged herself underwater. Facing the evening sky through a vacuum of bubbles brought on a strange feeling of diminutiveness. The world was expansive and quiet and she was the only one awake at this hour.

When she surfaced, nighttime had already changed to daytime. _Well, that can't be right. _She dry-swallowed another pill. In the blink of an eye, it was nighttime again.

The Adderall was no longer working. The splitting headache forced her out of the tub; she couldn't remember crawling to the kitchen until she was dry-heaving on the sink, forehead resting uncomfortably against the icy metal taps. Her stomach turned unpleasantly and she would have pulled her own guts out of her mouth just to make it stop.

It was the comedown. It was the worst feeling in the world.

She splashed some water on her face, hardly conscious of the freezing sensation or anything else. She could hardly move her own fingers.

When she straightened up, the block of kitchen knives on the far end of the counter caught her eye.

* * *

It was the satisfying _zing _sound of the knife being unearthed from the wood block that alerted her to reality. The icy metal implement felt foreign in her grip.

Fuck, Dad would be devastated.

And Emily. Em looks up to her.

Luke and Stacie, her two musketeers.

One deep cut to each arm and they would never be the same again.

Horrified, she flung the knife as far away as she could.

* * *

On the fourth day she could see oily shadows moving out of the corner of her eye. Every moving thing flickered and jumped like a badly-edited film; looking out the window or even her phone was unbearable.

The next few hours were spent trying to sleep. She asked the cleaning maid for Nyquil and laid on the couch, completely strung out for what felt like eternity, her thoughts too fast to even dwell on anything. Her entire body tingled unpleasantly – so many times she felt hooked insect legs creeping on her skin; she had bolted up in panic, running her hands frantically over the crawling sensations, finding nothing. The ceiling fluidly pulsated to whatever song her speakers played. This is why you get two-hundred-thousand-grand speakers, she thought, so you can enjoy the fuck out of them when you're high.

The tinny ringing of the cordless phone in the foyer didn't really register until it became too loud to be something from her hallucinations. She didn't move any of her tense muscles until she heard the elevator ping. Startled, she clenched her teeth – an unfortunate nervous habit – and recoiled at the sudden sting at the edge of her tongue, followed by the metallic taste of blood.

More stinging. Her hands were on her sides, but her face was smarting. A hand was slapping her cheek.

"Becky." _Slap, slap_. "Becky!"

Well, she definitely wasn't hallucinating this. "Fuck off, Luke," she groaned, finally opening her glassy eyes. The Brit was hovering over her, visibly upset; it quickly changed into anger when she tried to sit up.

"Fuck you!" He straightened, dumping a heavy duffel bag onto her knees in irritation. Beca didn't even blink at the dead weight. "The maids said you were gonna overdose, you lousy wanker!"

"That would have been exciting."

"Christ, Becky. What the bloody fuck are you on?" Luke sank to the floor next to her, one hand massaging the bridge of his nose as he scrutinized the contents of the coffee table. He grimaced upon seeing the pills. He then roughly seized her face, checking for nose burn as she feebly struggled to pull away. "Speed? Just speed?"

"Yeah, so leave me alone."

"You asshole. Not answering anybody for several days? Not fucking cool, mate!"

Beca didn't answer, opting instead to shake off Luke's bag from her knees as she closed her eyes again. 'Future Starts Slow' was playing – one of her absolute favorite tracks by The Kills. She had met Jamie Hines once. The guitarist had proceeded to call her music high trash. But she hardly felt offended – the man may be unpleasant, but he and Alison Mosshart made extraordinary music, and it scares her that none of her own tracks might ever compare to 'Magazine' or 'U.R.A. Fever'...

The sharp crack of Luke's palm as it smacked her in the face again brought her rudely to her senses. "What the fuck?" she yelled, ignoring the fact that each word only further gouged her painful throat. "Why are you even here? What the fuck do you want from me?"

Luke exhaled. "Keegan relocated me."

Well, shit.

Unlike Beca, Luke _loved _LA. He drove to In-N-Out thrice a week, showed off his abs in Malibu whenever he can, even had a doglike enthusiasm for speedy car rides in Beca's Ferrari. His Saturdays were rooftop bars and Lakers games while checking out celebrity patrons like Alessandra Ambrosio and David Beckham; his Sundays were farmers' markets and the Rose Bowl.

Beca and Keegan had previously agreed that Luke did not have to move with her to accomplish his PR duties. There was only one reason Keegan would change his mind.

"Fuck." Beca sat up, immediately feeling lightheaded. "Dude, no. I'll talk to him."

Luke shook his head. "It's cool. I was gonna suggest it, anyway. And I get to move back and forth for Emily." He clapped a hand to her shoulder resignedly, shaking it a bit. After his initial violent reaction, Beca realized he was actually relieved. "I thought you were dead. Nobody knew where you were. Stacie was crying and all, mate."

Thinking of Stacie made her chest hurt. "Sorry, dude. I'm fine, aren't I?"

"It would have sucked having to write your obituary, you massive thundercunt."

"Aww, you love me."

"Screw you. You look like shit." Luke surveyed her sunken eyes with mild concern. "How long have you been awake?"

"I dunno," she croaked. "I took Adderall last…"

"The last time we talked before you decided to fall off the face of the fucking earth? That was four days ago." Luke got up and went to the kitchen; Beca barely noticed until he was back again, this time with a glass of orange juice. "Jesus, Becky, you'd die if it wasn't for me. Drink up."

Beca did her best to force down half of the contents. The juice managed to bring some semblance of warmth to her fingertips; she was also finally sure Luke was not just a figment of her imagination.

"Good to see you."

"Don't throw any parades, it's just orange juice," he huffed, his ears turning red nonetheless. "You need to sleep. Nyquil?"

"I've had a couple. It's not working."

"Best if you work that out in bed." Luke helped her up, slinging her arm over his shoulders and half-dragging her towards the stairs. They reached her bedroom with much difficulty; Beca was only able to tell they were there when Luke bodily deposited her on top on the sheets. He tucked the covers haphazardly around her and then proceeded to pull down the blinds.

Beca watched him with a twinge of fondness. Knowing he was here, watching over her and everything else, finally gave her mind the reprieve she didn't know she needed.

"Lukey."

"Mmm?"

"Don't tell Stacie," she murmured, already slipping into unconsciousness.

* * *

Loud bass woke her up from a dreamless sleep.

_"__Oh my god, Jude Law totally keeps texting me. I'll probably meet him later."_

_"__Yeah, I bet you're really gonna hesitate on that one."_

_"__Bitch, you're just jealous."_

_"__Suck my dick."_

_"__You did text him, like, fifty times."_

"Why are we watching this?" Luke complained, just as Beca recognized the song: Azealia Banks' _212_, a trashy earworm of a club song that seemed to automatically incite shameless grinding in every valley girl. "I see this scene all the time in real life."

"Shut up," came another voice, one so alarmingly close Beca's cheek vibrated with the words. "Beca loves this song, I love skanky Emma Watson, you're mooching my popcorn..."

Beca froze.

That was Stacie.

No – _this _was Stacie. She was fucking resting her head in Stacie's chest.

"You know Becky totally stammered in front of Emma Watson, right?"

"No shit," Stacie gasped. "She already met Emma Watson? Where?"

"Some dinner in LA a couple months ago. James invited Becky and me, and it turns out he and Emma Watson are chums too. They were together in that end of the world movie. Anyway, we get seated across Emma Watson and Becky is completely spazzing out. Then, in the middle of dinner, Emma Watson offers this rascal more wine. You know what she says?"

"What?"

"'English is not my first language'!"

"That is not how it went at all!" Beca cried, getting up and upsetting Stacie's bowl of popcorn. "And you," she glowered at Luke, "I told you not to tell Stacie!"

"You're an avoider, Becky," Luke chastised, quickly rushing to collect the popcorn off the sheets. "What were you gonna do, hole up here forever? Besides, someone had to watch you. Stacie was up for it."

"You really have to say Emma Watson's full name again and again, you weirdo? _Emma_, Luke. I charmed her pants off with that joke. We're on a first-name basis now."

"Damn. The doctor said you were dehydrated, but you seem to have bumped your head too." He put the popcorn bowl safely out of reach and pushed her back down on the bed. "Don't move too much, you'll pull it out."

She looked down and spotted an IV wire protruding from her wrist. "How long was I out?"

"Two days."

She turned to Stacie, who had been unusually quiet throughout the whole exchange; the taller brunette wasn't looking at her. Beca was appalled to hear her sniffling.

"Stace?"

She only managed a choked sob.

"I'm sorry," Beca mumbled. She reached out on her own accord, her own tears falling as she held her best friend tightly. "Don't cry, dude, it's all good now. I'm sorry."

"I waited," she replied brokenly.

"I know." Beca kissed her forehead. "I'll make it up to you."

"You'll sleep with me?"

Beca snorted. "No."

"Oh yeah, get it on," Luke said in a bored tone, watching them from his armchair while smugly eating popcorn. "You're already on the bed and all."

"Gross."

"We can do it on that sweet tub in your bathroom," Stacie wheedled, one hand unexpectedly squeezing Beca's left breast; she yelped and pushed her off. Stacie, however, hugged her again. "Fuck, Beca. I won't judge if hookers and blow are your thing, but you really took it too far this time."

Beca said nothing, just stroked her hair while eyeing Luke.

"You're burned out, Beca," he said quietly. "We think you should go to rehab. Or therapy –"

"Not now, Luke!" Stacie snarled, breaking free of Beca's grasp to face him angrily. "For a nationality so famous for manners, you have the worst fucking timing –"

"We have to suss this out now! She's gonna be stretched to breaking point with all those concerts next quarter –"

"It is always fucking _business _with you! My friend almost died –"

"_Our _friend, Stacie. It's exactly why she needs this, okay? She –"

"I'm not going to rehab."

Both of them fell silent at Beca's firm tone. Now having their attention, she continued. "I'm not getting therapy either. I know I sound like I'm in denial, but I just...I need some time to figure out my shit. How I'm gonna do it is another story entirely, but it's not gonna start with me zoning out on Xanax while being cooped up in some fancy wellness spa."

Unfortunately, they seemed unconvinced – particularly Luke, who was pinching the bridge of his nose again, a dead giveaway whenever he was stressed. "These people are professionals, Becky. They can really help you."

"I'm sure. But this is fine. Having you here is fine." She leaned back on the pillows. "I just want to feel normal, okay?"

"Becky –"

"Then start acting like it!" Stacie interrupted, voice now raised in frustration. "Lay off the coke, be sober at least three times a week, stop jet-setting away from whatever fucking demons you have. Focus on your fucking self, Beca! Be that person you were a year ago, when Luke and I didn't have to babysit you all the time!"

Beca's eyes were stinging again. Stunned, she glanced from Stacie's tearstained face, to Luke's stony expression.

"Fuck."

She gripped her hair with both hands, unable to look at them anymore. They were putting up with her. And all this time she thought they were also having the time of their lives. "You...you both feel this way?"

"No," Luke muttered limply. "I don't –

"What did I tell you on your interview, Lucas?"

"Call it as I see it. Right." Luke swallowed uneasily at her icy tone. "I run a script on your mobile to keep your GPS tracker on all the time," he admitted. "It's just…less messy, especially when you're out of town. Those local gals that drive you home when you're wasted in Majorca or Santorini or wherever? Now you know they don't magically appear, mate."

And Beca knew better than ask Stacie – all the recent instances she had to fly out to LA was mostly due to Beca's pigheadedness. That time she crashed her motorcycle on Pacific Coast Highway, that time she had a nervous breakdown after almost getting caught in possession of cocaine, that time she was charged with assault for punching the asshole who tore into Cynthia Rose for being a 'nigger', that time she had the worst hangover after her LA farewell party – Stacie was there. Regardless of time, distance, and personal expense, Stacie would drop everything and appear by her side to bail her out, watch her in the hospital, wrestle her to bed. Beca never even had to ask.

Stacie finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry," she whispered, like all the fight had gone out of her. "It's harsh, but you need to hear this from us. You only ever listen to us."

She could hardly trust herself to speak. Her mind was straining to catch up with all the painful emotions clawing at her chest. If she even tried to open her mouth, what was there to say? Sorry for being selfish? Luke and Stacie were way past apologies now. They had to see her do something. _She _had to do something.

"Give me a month," she heard herself plead. "I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore, and you're probably tired of dealing with my crap, but…I can still turn this around."

Stacie and Luke exchanged glances, and it broke Beca's heart even more that they couldn't take her word as it is anymore, even when she was asking for so little. They had formed their own alliance – to save her from her self-perpetuated downward spiral, that much was obvious; but also, to doubt her.

Luke sighed. "She'd still be on holiday next month, Stace. It's her best chance at a clean slate."

At this, Stacie's gray eyes bored on Beca's intently. "Do what you have to. But if you still haven't got your act together after one month, I'm checking you into rehab myself...and there will be nothing wacky or sexual about it."

Beca nodded.

"Good." Stacie clutched the back of her neck. Pressed their foreheads together, the way they did during Beca's wildest gigs at Tomorrowland or Electric Daisy Carnival – after they've both dropped acid, the music is at its peak, and the girls are all over them but they _just_ _don't care_ because they're living the life together and they're best mates and nothing can tear their bond apart. "I'll never fucking tire of dealing with you, babe. I just have to see you try."

"I hear you," she answered, willing herself not to cry again. "I won't let you down."

* * *

**Songs used in this chapter: **

The Strokes - I'll Try Anything Once

Joy Division - Isolation

**Film Luke and Stacie were watching:** Sofia Coppola's The Bling Ring

I swear it only gets better after this. I actually wrote jokes, people. Hang in there!


	6. Chance

No coke, no speed, no clubs. Controlled consumption of weed and alcohol twice a week. Varying doses of benzodiazepines and a handful of vitamins every day from the doctor. She will not be locked in the apartment, but Luke and Stacie would be supervising her whenever she went out. And there will definitely be no use of The Bebop.

These are the rules. Stacie wrote them, and Luke, who was staying with Beca until he found a new apartment, would be enforcing them for one month.

Beca was all up for these rules. Her friends meant well. Besides, it was obviously high time (heh) for her to focus on the one thing she had been putting off for the past month: being a legitimate New Yorker. Living like a normal civilian in the urban sprawl that perfectly suited her temperament should be a no-brainer, right? After all, LA – and California, in general – had gotten too small for her impulsive, brooding nature. Paparazzi in and out of her favorite restaurants, getting mobbed in the streets, wannabes chatting her up on the line at delis, throwing parties as an obligation, having to be nice and polite to fellow celebrities in SoCal when all she wanted was a damn quiet surf…in LA, to snub the media machinery that made her meant certain death. Here in New York, it was simply rising above.

And she, Beca fucking Mitchell, had risen above a ton of things no one could ever imagine.

* * *

_Week 1, Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program_

"Luke, NO!" Beca and Luke crashed to the floor, the enraged Brit hardly loosening the chokehold around Beca's neck even as she elbowed him repeatedly. Stacie hovered over them, screaming to the point of hysterics. "This is not sexy at all! STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!"

"You fucking slag! How can you fucking sleep with Kate! My bloody ex-girlfriend!"

"LET HER GO, LUKE, GODDAMNIT!"

"ARGH!"

Beca had bitten Luke's beefy upper arm. He pulled away, cursing in pain; Beca quickly rolled off him, slumping face down on the tile.

"Beca!" Stacie managed to roll her friend's body over, hoping against hope this would not end up in another trip to the emergency room. Her panic, however, was cut short when she realized that Beca wasn't gasping for breath, but wheezing with laughter.

"Bloody sicko," Luke grumbled, cradling his arm.

"This – has been fun – but I'll need my– phone back," Beca panted, in between gurgles of deranged amusement. Her eyes were still watering from the damage in her bruised throat. She tried to sit up, failed miserably, and settled on propping herself up with her elbows. "Or should I elaborate – on how much – Kate – likes getting – a rim –"

Luke pounced on her with renewed fury, but this time Stacie was able to hold him back. "God, Beca, shut the fuck up!"

"Not my fucking fault – he took away my phone –"

"He had to, asshole, you were calling your dealer!"

"I wasn't –"

Stacie's backhanded slap landed perfectly on Beca's left cheek. It sent her reeling back to the floor, face contorted from the pain.

"Bullshit," Stacie growled, towering over her with barely-concealed contempt. "You're just fucking lying to yourself." And with that, Stacie and Luke left the bedroom, leaving Beca with nothing but a stinging cheek and an overwhelming sense of guilt.

* * *

_Week 2, Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program_

"Two packs. Two packs a day, for the last seven days. Congratulations, Becky. Your apartment is a bloody fucking chimney."

Beca, who was trying to light another cigarette on the stove, rolled her eyes. "Then go stay with Stacie." She held the cigarette in her mouth and pushed her face closer to the fire; at this, Luke dragged her away.

"Christ, you wanna singe your eyebrows? You're a millionaire, twit. Buy a goddamn lighter!" Luke grudgingly went back to his seat at the dining table, frowning at his plate. "Great, now my eggs are cold."

"Bite me."

"Yeah, I probably should so we're even, tosser."

"What did you fucking call me?'Cause you seem to be forgetting that you're crashing on my couch."

"Screw you. I'll get a bloody hotel room then!"

Ten days into the Keep-Beca-Drug-Free-and-Completely-Unhappy Program, and the cold Saturday morning was going about as swimmingly as Beca expected. Stacie had arrived to find her refusing the breakfast Luke made. Luke – proud, neat-freak, completely fucking retarded Luke – made her _runny_ scrambled eggs. Stacie diffused the situation with the bagels she brought. But not a long while later they were fighting again about the heater, and now, about this.

"Oh my god, you dickwads!" Stacie slammed a fist on the table in annoyance. "Luke, go microwave your plate." Luke kept glaring at Beca and she glared back, ready to beat up the larger guy if she really had to. "_Now_. Beca, come with me."

Beca trudged sullenly after Stacie, who led her out to the terrace.

"You really need to stop acting like a brat, babe."

Beca only stared at Stacie, but let her burrow next to her in the deck chair, moving her legs aside so the taller brunette could fit.

"I may be patient, but I'm not Chloe. I am _this _close to punching you in the tit." Stacie plucked away the unlit cigarette in Beca's hand, flicking it over the terrace railing. "Say something."

"I feel like shit."

"Want coke?"

Now that Beca thought about it, she didn't. But this wasn't necessarily a good thing; she no longer had any idea what she fucking wanted. "No."

"Wanna go out?"

"No."

"It'll help. You haven't left your man-cave in two weeks."

"It's fucking cold."

"Beca, baby." Stacie stroked the smaller brunette's shoulder, and then flinched. "Myaaa. You stink like a junkie hooker's ass."

"How do you even know what that –"

"Curiosity sometimes leads me to unfortunate cracks," Stacie cackled. "Anyway, you have to take a shower sometime in the next hour. It's a cornerstone to getting laid."

"I'm banned from getting laid, remember?"

"You're banned from clubs where you can get coke, sure. But sex? Wouldn't dream of it." Stacie straddled her, expression clouding when Beca made no effort to push her off or even do anything about it. "Come on. I learned a few bathtub moves over the week."

"Not in the mood."

Stacie pouted even harder at that. "Look, you're in a funk, I get it. But you've been clean for at least a week. You know what will make you feel better? Rewarding yourself." She started humping Beca's hip. "Oooh, yeah. I volunteer as tribute. I was born for this moment."

Beca sighed, ignoring the other girl's pseudo-advances. "Say I feel like going out. Where would we go?"

"Bugsy's. Best damn bar in my side of town."

Stacie lived in the Meatpacking District, so that should be close. "You'll trust me to be with a girl on my own?"

"Baby, I'm a very trusting person. See, I'm thrusting into you right now." Stacie pinned Beca's wrists to the deck chair, making the worst faces. "Harder! Oh, god, harder..."

"You know what I mean."

"Not everyone downtown is a raging cokehead. We'll find you a nice hot townie, okay? Now smile." Beca finally relented, her forced grin turning into a screech when Stacie lowered her cleavage to the producer's face. "Motorboat them all you want. Don't be shy."

"Nope. Who knows where those have been?" Beca choked out, avoiding the smothering rounds of flesh. "Dude, this is so wrong."

"Shh. Let it happen." Stacie looked up to see Luke standing by the glass doors, holding his plate while staring openmouthed at them. "Like what you see, alpha dog?"

Luke approached and sat on the deck chair across them, his ears red. "Not really."

"Becs, apologize to Sir Waitrose McDouchey."

"Hey!"

Beca rolled her eyes, but she glanced at Luke. "Sorry. You're a freak."

"And you're being fake-bonked by Stacie. That should be enough punishment."

Stacie stuck her tongue out at Luke. "Whatever, you want me. I'm taking Beca out for titties."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Bugsy's."

"Yuck. Bugsy's is staph-infection dive-y."

"Why, because they don't have those fifty-dollar cocktails at The Darby with figs and blood diamonds?"

"The Darby is the finest lounge in New York."

"For pretentious frat bros like you, sure."

"I am not! And excuse me, but The Darby happens to be Leo DiCaprio's favorite –"

"Which is exactly why Beca's not going – it's a club, and no clubs, remember?"

"Fine, but seriously, Bugsy's? Nobody scores at that dump. Convents have seen more action. We're going to Clandestino."

"Guys! I'm going to Bugsy's." Stacie let out a triumphant crow at Beca's statement; Luke merely scowled. "Don't look so sad, Lukey, I'm not in the mood to fake pleasantries with Gigi Hadid or whoever."

"But you fancy Gigi Hadid."

"Yeah, so it's best she doesn't see me like this."

"You're so fucking fragile," he scoffed.

"Fuck you. I can't hear you over those very loud Paddington Bear pajamas you're wearing."

* * *

_Week 3, Beca-Is-Drug-Free-and-Getting-Laid-Program_

"Like it?"

"Fuck yeah." Beca leaned back on the headboard, staring appreciatively at the blonde girl astride her hip, pert breasts on full display.

They met at Bugsy's last night. It was probably noon by now, but she didn't mind spending the extra time with this girl. It helped that she was exactly Beca's type in terms of physicality. But on top of that, she couldn't tell STOKR from Adam, didn't have 'ditzy' written all over her, and, most importantly, understood this was a one-time thing.

"You'll like this even more." The girl licked Beca's collarbone, slipped a finger between her legs, palmed one of her breasts…did she already mention this girl demonstrated amazing flexibility? It didn't take long for Beca to start feeling the rush of an unstoppable orgasm; she ground herself against the girl's hand, digging her nails into the other's bared buttocks.

"Faster," she growled impatiently, and the blonde happily obliged. Beca's thighs were starting to tremble, her center was knotted up in taut anticipation – and at the very last moment, fingers squeezed firmly around her neck, sending her over the edge with an unrestrained cry, her head forcefully tipping back into the headboard as she arched her back in climax.

"Was it good for you?" the girl asked in a teasing tone, after Beca had recovered and they were laying side-by-side.

"Weren't you there?" Beca matched her smirk. "I enjoyed it."

"Me too."

Both of them jumped almost off the bed at the third voice. Glancing around frantically, Beca found Stacie leaning on the doorframe of the cavernous bedroom, with no less than a shit-eating grin on her face.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" The blonde girl screamed hysterically as she scrambled to cover herself, Beca wildly following suit. "WHO IS THIS BITCH?!"

"Hey, easy," Stacie said, raising her hands as she approached the bed. "I'm just here to –"

"IS THIS WHAT YOU STUCK-UP ASSHOLES DO ALL THE TIME?! WATCH EACH OTHER FUCK AND MAKE SEX SCANDALS AND –"

"Stace, get out!" Beca yelled.

"Baby, that's not what we do at all, okay?" Stacie took one step closer, grin positively turning more voracious by the second. "But I wouldn't object to –"

"I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER –"

* * *

_An hour later_

"Ow."

Beca resolutely stared on the road ahead, having ignored Stacie whining on the passenger seat for the last five minutes. Her dark red Ferrari felt out of place in the snaking traffic, not to mention it was getting resentful glares from passersby. She made a mental note to have Luke find her a less-ostentatious car.

"Ow."

Beca rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time.

"Oww." Stacie looked at her morosely as she pressed an ice pack to the bright red welt in her cheek. "Ouchie on my gorgeous face."

The word 'cold' may have been spat into Beca's face several times by several other women, but never by Stacie. This time was no different. She wasn't able to resist letting out a chuckle at the latter's ridiculousness. "You deserve it."

"You told me to pick you up at noon! How was I supposed to know that wasn't a surprise threesome you set up for me?! My birthday is in three months."

"Because I told you we're meeting up with Luke!" Luke moved out a few days ago, having found a new apartment in Upper East Side. Today they were aligning second-quarter goals and timelines for the indie division and PR division – something Beca did not look forward to at all – and then showing Stacie around the new office.

"How was I supposed to know that wasn't some respectable-sounding bait you invented so I'd come over?"

"Because I was shouting 'get out'!" Beca scoffed. "Holy shit, now that I think about it, you saw me _naked?!_"

Stacie's retort was a self-satisfied smirk.

"Oh, god." Beca would have put her hands up to cover her face in embarrassment, if only she wasn't driving. She shuddered in disgust, narrowed her eyes as she tried to picture her own body through Stacie's worldview, and shuddered again. "I shouldn't have fucking asked. I can't live like this. Oh, god. How long were you standing there? Argh, don't answer –"

"Long enough to know you like this." Stacie choked herself with her free hand, smug expression hardly wavering.

"Jesus." Beca fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat. "I fucking hate you. I hate myself. Fuck, I've never loathed myself this much."

"Don't, baby. It makes our relationship so much healthier."

"_How?!"_

"Well, communication is key and all that bullshit, and now that I know what you want in the bedroom –"

"Please stop talking."

It was Stacie's turn to roll her eyes. "At least we know she's not The One."

"Goddamnit, Stacie, she's the seventh bimbo I picked up from Bugsy's. Did I look like I wanted to date her? Or were you belted so hard that wasn't clear to you?"

"Yeah, about that," Stacie began indignantly, "why didn't you hold her back? Bros before hos, dude. You disappoint me."

"_I _disappoint you? I wasn't the one who went full sex predator!"

"Again, I thought you were gifting me a threesome."

"I would never –"

"A little Threesome 101, though: girl, girl, guy is the perfect ratio." Stacie unconsciously began groping her own breast as she dispensed this sage wisdom, and Beca slapped away the offending hand. "And I can't believe I've noticed before: your tits are –"

"– never to be mentioned ever again. I mean it."

"But –"

"Yeah, that too."

* * *

"You're late!" Luke snarled when they finally got to Residual Heat Record's brand-spanking-new NYC headquarters. It was a converted two-storey warehouse in Broadway, designed by Gerard Cohler to have the same airy vibe as the LA branch. While a tad smaller, the second office was just as functional: it had two recording studios, another studio for performance and rehearsal space, a decent-sized office, seven employees Beca poached from RHR LA, and eight new hires.

"Someone was busy getting busy –" Stacie sang, before being interrupted by a light smack in the face from Beca. "Dammit, babe, you used to worship me."

"Can't you ever be arsed to respect my fucking time?" Luke asked loudly as he led them to her office on the second floor, passing blown-up album cover posters and little pots of aloe and cacti along the way. "I told you to be here at ten, you arrive at twelve-thirty, and now we're morally obliged to take her to lunch. The economy is going belly-up, guys! I could have bought myself new hair chutney with that money. Tigi Bed Head Stick, that's the one – Chris Hemsworth's favorite, lightweight, semi-matte, gives softness and texture with no build-up –"

"Shut your sexy spornosexual mouth," Stacie muttered.

"What's this business about taking her to lunch?" Beca wasn't feeling particularly up for social interaction today; she thought she'd be spending the entire afternoon with only Stacie and Luke. "Who's 'her'?"

"Read. Your. Emails!" Luke barked, throwing the door to the corner office open. They all filed in, Beca leading the way. The next moment, Stacie promptly walked into her.

"The fuck?" Stacie glanced around to see what made her friend stop suddenly on her tracks. A blonde woman in a pinstriped dark suit waited for them on the couch, rising and giving them a casual yet calculated nod as Beca ventured forward.

The producer has always prided herself on being good at sizing people up. However, the longer Beca studied the woman, the harder it became to figure her out. She had her hair in a tight bun, yet her perfect posture did not betray any form of insecurity or uptightness. On the contrary, she only radiated quiet confidence. Beca would have called her strikingly gorgeous if the smirk on the blonde's face didn't make her think of a prowling lynx. The blonde's eyes were icy gray marbles. They glittered as they bore into Beca's own.

This woman is a _robot._

Beca only got more disconcerted when they were in front of each other, and realized that the blonde woman _towered _over her. Like, Beca's eye line landed exactly at the blonde's –

"...dude."

Stacie was elbowing her.

"What?"

"...she said words, man," Stacie whispered in a rapturous tone.

"Bloody hell. I'm the only bloke here who knows how to treat women right," Luke huffed irritably, sidestepping both of them. "Kommissar – this is your boss, Beca Mitchell. Never, _ever_, open your legs around this complete and utter twat."

"Kommissar?" Beca repeated blankly, unable to take her eyes off the woman's face. "She's working for me?"

"She's your new personal assistant."

Beca turned to Luke. "You fired Dax and hired someone I haven't even interviewed? What the fuck?"

"You lost your power to fire and interview on the seventh email I sent regarding the matter," Luke answered evenly.

"You only moved out of my apartment last week! You couldn't have talked to me all those time about this?"

"Your vacation leave clause specifically said you were to be reached via email only. And in the case of urgent work-related concerns, it was up to me and/or Keegan to act on your behalf if there are any required actions. Legally, I wasn't supposed to talk to you." Luke seemed pretty pleased with himself – of course he would be, Beca thought in annoyance, the guy got off on finding stupid loopholes out of everything. "Don't worry, mate. You'll like her."

Beca, eyebrow raised, turned back to Kommissar.

"You do not seem pleased to meet me," the blonde said in a low melodic voice, accent immediately distinguishable.

"She's German," Stacie gasped.

"You – are physically flawless." Beca looked the blonde up and down, finding no chink in the seemingly-perfect specimen. _Wait, what? _"But that doesn't mean I like you," she muttered, in a lame attempt to backtrack.

"Good save," Luke said sarcastically. He then addressed Kommissar with a grin. "Care to join us for lunch? She's paying."

* * *

"OW!"

"That's for picking the most fucking expensive restaurant in the entire Broadway strip," Beca snapped under her breath, watching with satisfaction as Luke dropped his menu and doubled over in his seat.

They were at Gramercy Tavern, one of those upscale farm-to-table deals with all-wood interiors and outrageously-priced prix fixe menus. Kommissar had excused herself to go to the powder room. The moment her back disappeared from view, Beca twisted one of Luke's nipples.

"I got you a cracking fanny and this is how you pay me back?" Luke wailed, massaging the spot. "It bloody fucking _stings."_

"This – that – _she – _that is not a favor! I can't work with her! She's too hot." Beca waved a hand in front of Stacie's face; the taller brunette, who was gaping fixedly at the seat Kommissar had vacated for the last thirty seconds, finally blinked at the interruption. "Look, she broke Stacie!"

"She can sit on my face all day," Stacie said dazedly.

"See how that went from zero to creepy really fast? Luke, seriously, what kind of woman gets a name like Kommissar?!"

"I really know where to get 'em, don't I?" Luke smirked.

Kommissar was making her way back to the table, and they all promptly fell quiet. After they have ordered, Kommissar, to Beca's surprise, addressed her directly:

"I didn't expect you to be so tiny. Like a – sprite? Fairy? Elf?"

"Troll," Luke unhelpfully supplied.

"Okay, lady, why would you even want to work for me?" Beca asked bluntly, irked by the observation. "I don't know anything about you, I just know you're smoking – I mean, I haven't even seen your resume, and you're already very comfortable calling me names. Why don't we get started on yours? _Kommissar? _What's that, a nom de sauerkraut or something?"

"Don't insult her," Stacie hissed.

Kommissar held up a regal hand and Stacie quickly stopped, glaring at Beca. "We can go through my resume right now, but I'll spare you the pain. I can assure you I'm fully qualified – if not overqualified – to be your personal assistant," the German said evenly. "Besides, I'm sure you'd rather run off with your friends than read through my numerous achievements, _ja_? So I'll make this brief. I want to work for you because I want you to sign me up."

This was not at all the answer Beca was expecting.

"I'm sorry – what?"

Kommissar sighed and pulled out a tablet, typing for a bit before handing it to Beca. It showed a Rolling Stone feature on Rock Am Ring Festival 2014, with photos of the event and the bands in the lineup. Beca wasn't sure what she should be seeing as the article was written in German. But she dutifully scrolled down, scanning the pictures, until she stopped at one: a photo onstage of who was unmistakably Kommissar.

She stood in the midst of fireworks and light beams, clad in some sort of black leather-and-fishnet jumpsuit and staring ahead with a triumphant smirk. There were two men standing on either side of her wearing the same outfits. Behind them the giant LED board announced, in stark black letters: DAS SOUND MACHINES.

Holy crap.

"You're in that insanely-synchronized synthwave German band?!"

"_Gut_, you have heard of Das Sound Machines," Kommissar sighed. "This makes things so much easier."

"I have, but only because Mike Glover won't shut up about it. You're supposedly huge in Berlin or something." Michael Glover is Miami Nights 1984, a friend and another electronic artist who made pretty good synthwave music over at Rosso Corsa Records. "And you want a contract for your band?"

"_Nein_. Just me." Beca raised an eyebrow at this. "Das Sound Machines is disbanding. Klaus is moving to Austria. The composer, Pieter, received a fellowship at Juilliard. And I decided it's time to build a music career here in America."

"But if you wanted to be signed to Residual Heat Records, why didn't you just send a demo –"

"_Nein_, not Residual Heat. Your own label."

Beca blinked, confused once again. "Lady, I'm very flattered. But I'm just the A&amp;R executive of the indie division. I don't have my own record label."

"Why not? You already have all the skills, the accolades, the money to back it up. You do not get fired despite all the trouble you bring to your boss; you get an increase in your paycheck so you will put up with some more. It's because your label knows you can stand on your own if you leave. You are a mouse, but you are indispensable."

"...did you just call me a _mouse_?"

"Becky, do you hear what she's saying?" Luke said. "Kommissar has an MBA from London Business School. She knows what she's talking about."

"Et tu, Luke?" Beca looked Kommissar in the eye. "Okay, it's not like I've never had the idea of striking out on my own. But as of the moment, I'm right where I want to be. My arrangement with Keegan works fine. I was just promoted. I'm not leaving."

"Of course," Kommissar agreed – to Beca's slight surprise. "After all, these plans materialize two or three years from now, as I've estimated from your schedule last year and this year. You will need to find talents, file paperwork with the city, develop a sound business plan…all of which you can prepare for, with my business expertise."

"So what I'm hearing is this: aside from being my personal assistant…"

"I will also be your business adviser."

"And in exchange…"

"You will give me a record deal once your own label takes off."

"Which, as you said, will take two or three years from now?"

"At the very least."

Satisfied that she got the German to define the terms herself, Beca leaned forward on the table. "Wouldn't this be unfair to you? I mean, the payoff would be so long. Who knows where I'll be in three years? For all we know, I might be retired in Brazil or something."

"Things do change. But I consider it as investment. Besides, I've talked to you long enough to believe you honor your word," Kommissar answered. She was hardly patronizing, the opposite of what Beca often recognized from strangers who gave her compliments; on the contrary, Kommissar's eyes were stern, although she maintained her casual tone. "And we'll put this in writing – the exact results asked of both of us, down to the expected delivery period."

"As an added safety, her contract will officially be filed with you, not RHR," Luke was saying. "I've already cleared this with Keegan. But we'll also have the company lawyer add his agreement in writing and have him sign it off, lest RHR sue you in the future for creating your own record label –"

"So I'd have to pay her out of pocket?" Beca interrupted.

"You're loaded! Besides, she'll be your personal assistant even out of office. It's good value, believe me."

Beca glanced from Luke to Kommissar, who was smiling slightly. They had obviously thought this whole thing through.

The German's career plan was highly ambitious. _Move to America. Latch on to an already-successful label executive-producer. Promise her something so ludicrous that will nonetheless appeal to her ego. _It was brilliant, if Kommissar found a gullible-enough executive to buy the idea. But it was practically impossible to set up a meeting with any big name-producer. And if they did, this is the sad truth of the music industry: even talented artists like Ryan Hemsworth and Lewis del Mar would not pass an audition with Keegan. They simply would not sell. Kommissar only managed to get her foot in the door by applying as Beca's personal assistant.

But would it be so bad to at least_ consider_ the possibility of having her own record label in a few years? After all, that was the end goal. She merely deviated from it when her own fame as an artist overshadowed her popularity as a producer. She liked Residual Heat. Keegan treated her like a friend, trusted her with her own projects, even gave her an indie division where she can exercise full creative freedom. But RHR's style of acquiring talents was only limited to the next big thing. Keegan only produced for the stars – Snoop Dogg, Drake, Jay-Z – and never cultivated indie artists that showed promise. Case in point: RHR's recent crop of new artists included the daughter of a famous actor and a Youtube prick who was being groomed as the next Justin Bieber. And Keegan just spent a ridiculous amount of money trying to establish Paris Hilton as a DJ. Beca wouldn't have these problems if she had her own music label.

"How did you meet Luke?"

"A headhunter agency placed me."

"And before this, did you know him? Are you related in any way? Have you slept with him?"

"Jesus, Beca, will you stop offending Kommissar?" Stacie intervened.

"Nah, this is alright." Luke winked at Beca. "_Art of War_, Sun Tsu. I schooled her on this. Always be suspicious, dawg."

"I did not know him before," Kommissar said. "I merely impressed him during the interview, like I am doing with you now."

"It doesn't help when you come to them looking like a fucking vision." Beca shook her head at the stupid words inadvertently coming out of her mouth. "Ah, fuck."

"_Danke_."

"So, why me?" Beca asked warily. "You could have gone to, I dunno, Flume or Jamie XX with this offer. Maybe even Hot Chip. Hell, Robin Schulz is German."

"Because I go for – what's the American idiom? The big fish. _Fleeting Pleasures _is a shoo-in for album of the year."

"Ambitious."

"It works for me. I also read about your work with Emily Junk in her feature with _Harper's Bazaar_. She, among many others you've mentored, reports you are impressively patient and talented."

Beca tried to recall the aforementioned article. Luke compiled electronic and printed copies of Emily and Beca's magazine features; Beca occasionally thumbed through them with an equal mix of vanity and self-loathing. The Brit immediately came to her rescue. "Em said something along the lines of being so grateful you waited around for ages, letting her finish college and all, before starting work on her first album."

She quickly registered which feature they were talking about. It was Emily's first major-league magazine photo shoot. She had been in a red dress on the cover, girlish but sufficiently poised even though she was bouncing nervously between takes.

"How d'you remember all this stuff?" Luke only grinned, but it quickly turned into a scowl when Beca reached over to ruffle his hair.

"Sod it! I am a grown-ass chap –"

"The fact that you have done a capella is a factor as well," Kommissar continued. "That was how Das Sound Machines began. And we would have continued professionally had the Barden Bellas not soundly beaten us during our final year, with Emily Junk at the helm. Needless to say, I have tremendous respect for her. And you, by association."

"I'm a Barden Bella too," Stacie chimed in excitedly.

"_Liebchen, _I know." Kommissar's responding smirk for Stacie was so self-assured the other could only gawk back stupidly. Beca rolled her eyes.

"Good sell."

"I am in?"

"No. But only because I haven't seen if this proposal sounds just as good on paper." Beca made her first work-related mental note in months: _hire a new NYC-based law firm_. "And one more thing."

"That is?"

"Are you any good without Das Sound Machines backing you up? I need a demo tape."Beca finally cracked her first smile since she sat down at the table; Kommissar's face relaxed as well.

"Of course."

"Now that I think about it, we're testing out the new studio equipment before we officially open for business. If you can spare an hour after lunch, would you like to come back to the office and do a live audition instead?"

"_Ja_. I am free the entire afternoon."

"What just happened?" Stacie whispered to Luke bemusedly, as Beca and Kommissar finally started on their meals and fell into a spirited conversation on their common German acquaintances.

Luke's smile was pompous as he tucked into his oysters. "She's less likely to skive off work now, huh?"

* * *

_Week 4, Beca-Is-Drug-Free-and-Goes-To-See-Chloe_

"Beca?" Chloe answered the call, sounding mildly concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Um, you're at work?"

"Yep, why?"

"I'm in town." Beca stamped her foot in a vain effort to keep herself warm; Philly somehow felt nippier than downtown Manhattan. She ducked into the nearest coffee shop before her parked car could get attention. "A few blocks away from Children's Hospital, actually."

"Really?" Chloe chirped, already excited. "This is a surprise! My shift ends in a couple of hours. What do you want to do?"

"Steak and a lot of alcohol."

"You're such a dude. There's a serviceable Irish bar nearby – Finnigan's. We always go there after work."

"They have steak?"

"Yes, it's pretty good. Andy gets it every time."

Andy was Chloe's boyfriend, a fellow intern at Children's Hospital. "Feel free to bring Andy."

"Nope. I want you all to myself."

"I know, but I don't want him to get jealous or anything."

"Darling, of course he's going to be jealous. You're the big B.M.," Chloe laughed. "Lucky for you, he's in surgery the entire evening. See you at Finnigan's in two hours?"

"I'll be there."

* * *

"Oh god, I haven't seen you in forever!" Chloe gushed, once they finished ordering at Finnigan's and the redhead had exhausted all of her hugs for Beca. "What brings you to Pennsylvania? Where's your entourage?"

"I don't go around with an entourage," Beca said indignantly.

"Kidding." Chloe kissed her on the cheek. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why are you here?"

"I had to get away from Luke and Stacie. We spend almost every waking hour together. I swear, if Luke was here he'd be complaining about how there's only six beers on tap."

Chloe, thankfully, left it at that. They fell into an easy conversation once their steaks arrived, and pretty soon they had mostly discussed their major milestones since the past year. Chloe's second year of internship was grueling, she and Andy had just passed the eighth-month mark, and her parents had retired to New Hampshire. Beca, meanwhile, explained that she had been on a four-month tour for _Fleeting Pleasures_, got signed as an Adidas ambassador, and was currently on a two-month vacation – or at least, up until she returned to New York to 'sort out some personal issues'.

"Are these 'personal issues' difficult to talk about without whiskey?"

Beca only nodded.

"Then I'll buy our first round."

That was one of Beca's favorite things about Chloe: no matter how much time had passed between them, she could always count on the compassionate redhead to be a wonderful friend.

* * *

"Seriously," Chloe asked, watching Beca down another shot of whiskey. "Why did you come visit me?"

Beca sighed. "I'm going back to work in a couple of days. I kinda need a cheerleader."

"Aww, Becs."

"No. Not 'aww'. I need tough love, Beale. Say 'I should think bigger', 'I'm being complacent', shit like that."

"But that's why you have Luke."

"I've had enough motivation from that douche. He lived with me for almost a month, just moved out last week."

"Really? Stacie said he was staying in LA." Chloe noticed her faltering. "Becs?"

"…I was fucking up." Beca's jaw tightened. "He had to step in."

She ended up telling Chloe everything, beginning from the disillusionment even before her two-month vacation. She left nothing out: the jet-setting from Barcelona to St. Tropez, snorting copious amounts of coke, fucking in and out of clubs, coming back to New York, the near-overdose on amphetamines, the confrontations with Stacie and Luke, the difficulty of getting back on track.

By the end of her rambling, Chloe was in tears.

"Oh, Beca. I'm sorry. I…I never knew."

"It's cool," Beca answered, her voice thick as she accepted Chloe's one-armed hug. "I was trying to hide it from everybody."

"I know. You've always been this very strong person, Becs." Chloe pressed her cheek against Beca's shoulder. "I also know this is utterly cheesy, but I'm here for you."

"I know."

They were silent for a few moments. Beca felt drained and relieved all at once; but she let Chloe comfort her, even letting the redhead run a hand through her hair.

"Beca?"

"Yeah?"

"If it happens again, would you let me know?"

"Of course. I wanted to tell you earlier, believe me. But honestly? Nothing occupied my mind for the first few weeks except getting a fix. I didn't want to eat, I didn't want to do shit, and I would have cut Luke just to get back my phone and call my dealer."

"I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you. How is it now?"

"Fine, I guess. This is the first time Luke and Stacie let me out unsupervised. They're probably worried I ran straight to my dealer, so will you vouch for me?"

"I will."

Past midnight, one of the bartenders approached them. "Hey. Any of you own a red Ferrari in the lot? There are paps by your car."

"Shit." Her new car – a less-ostentatious Audi A5 in sensible black – was just being delivered tomorrow, and so she carelessly brought the 2002 Enzo along. "I'll have someone pick it up tomorrow," she finally told the bartender decisively.

"You can't leave your car in the lot overnight. I mean, you could, but imagine the parking fees –"

"I'm sure I can manage." She turned to Chloe. "Sorry, Beale. We have to go."

The bartender blinked, finally recognizing her. "Shit, you're STOKR!"

"No, I'm from the Hill." Chloe laughed at Beca's acerbic response, but she gathered her things and stood. Beca left more cash for the bill and bartender, bundled her oversized olive coat tighter around herself, and led the way out.

The paparazzi were waiting by the exit. Beca quickly singled them out from the idlers – shifty-eyed men with bulked-up jackets, raising their heads with malicious anticipation every time someone stepped out. Hopefully they weren't able to I.D. her car. She walked past them as calmly as she could, her one arm looped with Chloe's. The key to evading paparazzi was to look like she belonged here instead. They couldn't see ordinary people; they could bump into Chloe five times in the street and never remember her.

It worked until they were at the curb. Then Beca raised a hand to call for a cab, and almost instantaneously, flashes started to go off behind them. Chloe's eyes widened when she realized what was happening.

"I forgot how famous you are."

Beca rolled her eyes, but all she got was a mischievous grin from the redhead. Chloe then whistled so shrilly it echoed down the bustling street; less than thirty seconds later, a taxi skidded to a stop beside them.

"How did you do that?!" Beca asked breathlessly as they jumped in.

Chloe only shrugged nonchalantly. "Where do you want to go?"

"Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Off-duty." Chloe beamed. "I don't think you can take the train back to New York. Wanna go to another bar?"

Beca sighed. She'd be recognized too easily on the train. Besides, she'd have an easier time staying overnight in Philly – she could retrieve the car herself the next morning. "We could. Hold on though, I just need to check into, uh, Marriot."

"What?! No, you're staying with me."

"It's really nice of you to offer, but –"

"Come on. My house isn't four-star, but it has bidets. And overhead showers. And history!" Chloe winked, and only then did Beca realize that Chloe barely aged – she looked not a day older than twenty-two, when Beca left Barden. "It's a hundred and fifty years old. And I just vacuumed. Think of it as Airbnb with glorious margaritas."

"Wow. That sounds enticing, really, but don't you want to invite Andy over? I don't wanna cockblock you."

"Andy gets me six days a week. He'll live."

"Okay then." Chloe squealed, and Beca could only grin at her friend's excitement. "But promise you won't wake me up early. And I better see those margaritas."

"You buy the tequila. I don't think the swill at my house would pass your standards."

"You calling me snooty?"

"What do you drink at home?"

"...1800," Beca muttered grudgingly. "Fine, I'll get it."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

The Beale townhouse in the outskirts of Pennsylvania was really a hundred and fifty years old – a beautiful pre-war home, with an iconic walkup and inviting hardwood floors. Beca found herself admiring the warm, tasteful interiors. It was exactly the kind of house she pictured Chloe growing up in.

"Come to the kitchen," Chloe called, flicking light switches on as she walked. Beca followed, clutching a paper-wrapped bottle of Patron Reposado. Chloe showed no signs of slowing down at one in the morning: she measured triple sec and sliced limes with ease, telling story after story without missing a beat as she poured out cloudy white liquid in chilled glasses.

The margarita tasted delicious – fresh and tart. Beca was only able to tell Chloe on their fourth glass, when they had moved to the couch and exhausted their laughter over a wide range of topics.

"Aw, mister," Chloe slurred, her smile fond. "You're at it again."

Beca grinned back. "At what?"

"That thing you do! You and your casual compliments."

"What?! That's not my thing."

"It totally is! It's like the opposite of humble-bragging." Chloe set down her glass. "When are you going back to work again?"

"Two days."

"Do you feel like you're ready?"

"No. Not really." Beca let Chloe thread their fingers together, her other hand swirling the ice on her glass. "Business-wise, I can manage. But music-wise, I don't even know if I want to have a third album."

"Of course you do! Your music is incredible. It would be a shame not to."

"It's not like I want to stop, don't get me wrong. But my new material is just...uninspired."

"Maybe don't rush it? You just moved cross-country, get used to the swing of things first. Build new habits until they become so routine you can meditate while washing dishes."

"...go on."

"You get to de-clutter your mind the longer you get used to routine. Eventually you'd have idle time to think up something new. Think of it like this: I come up with the best ideas whenever I scrub in before surgery. Ever heard of 'don't rush art'?"

Beca snickered. "Which rom-com did you pull that shit from?"

"_Toy Story?"_ Chloe grinned. "Hey, you also need a muse! I can totes be your muse."

"Aren't you supposed to be, like, banging your muse?"

"Oooh, are you hinting at something?"Chloe thrust her face dangerously close to Beca's.

"I wasn't –"

The rest of her words were cut off by Chloe's lips.

* * *

She tasted of lime and salt. Ultimately, it was what sobered Beca up.

"...Chloe."

"Mmm?"

Beca reluctantly extricated herself from the kiss, shifting backwards to create a decent gap between them. "We're drunk."

Chloe only watched her retreat.

"And you have a boyfriend."

"I know." Chloe leaned back on the couch, eyes still on Beca. Her smile was both reassuring and wistful. "But I was curious."

* * *

They did not speak of it until the next morning. Beca adamantly declined brunch, saying she had to drive back to New York to avoid the traffic; she was also desperate to put the kiss behind them.

"Don't be a stranger," Chloe chided as she saw Beca through the door.

"'Course not." Beca took a deep breath before initiating a rather-awkward hug with the redhead. But Chloe hugged her back, and then it was comfortable. "Come up to Manhattan sometime. Luke and Stace would love to fight over where to take you."

That earned a light chuckle from Chloe. A moment later, her blue eyes turned serious. "Beca, about last night."

Beca swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Can we please just...forget it happened?"

She sighed internally in relief – she could not bear to tell Chloe, for the second time, that their brief liplock meant nothing to her. "Okay."

"Thank you."

They smiled warmly at each other, and Chloe gave her hand one last squeeze.

* * *

_Week 1, RHR Broadway_

Chloe's advice on routine had been spot-on. The problem was, Beca couldn't live with _this _routine.

Her first day back to work had been mild enough. There was a brusque call from Keegan scolding her for not agreeing to a joint appearance with Paris Hilton. Beca spent most of the day painstakingly answering business emails (_what's your rate, PALACE POOL CLUB TURNS 3, re: bass too low in track 2, _the works), while Kommissar accumulated meetings and events for her in the next few months. She and Stacie even hit up Clandestino by nine, and Stacie huffily admitted that Luke was right about the lounge.

Tuesday, the real horror began. She had meetings for most of the day. Back in LA, she would have enjoyed driving across town with the hood popped open. But in New York, meetings were fucking _miserable_ – most of them conference calls, with droning voices in her laptop detailing one problem after another for over an hour. On her way to the one non-virtual meeting, she almost collided with a rogue taxi in Fifth. And if she had known the meeting would run until 2 a.m., with a bunch of bohemian twats who only drank small-batch cocktails and 'made music from urban wilderness', she would have rather crashed the Audi.

Wednesday, back to the desk. Office cooler gossip reported management issues between the transfer employees from LA and the snooty new hires from New York. What did she have to do with this? Nonetheless, she ordered Kommissar to plan a casual label party on Friday – just the indie division, preferably at Black Flamingo in Williamsburg, with unlimited hors d'oeuvres and champagne. "Think Leo DiCaprio," she said of the theme, before running off to more meetings. Two artists, one producer, and one band; only one of them was promising enough, and she signed him for six months. Dinner with Stacie and Luke had to be moved up by 11 p.m. Asleep at home by 3:40, she got a frazzled call from the new sound engineers: they need an edit on the Christina Aguilera record. Shaking her head, Beca drove downtown. She did not leave the studio until Thursday at 10 p.m., after two grueling studio sessions with Christina and then Carly Rae Jepsen.

Friday, another call from Keegan, this time exuberant: her _Vanity Fair _cover, two months later, is still this year's highest-selling issue. Before lunch she had to berate the under-performing A&amp;R coordinators at Keegan's behest. Then she had to sit in on auditions from one to six, which, as usual, stretched until nine. At this point, all Beca wanted to do was pack up and take some goddamned rest.

Unfortunately it was not to be. As soon as auditions were over Luke whisked her back to her apartment, where her stylist James Karr and MUA Marion Mizuhara awaited. She had completely forgotten about the label party. An hour later, made-up and resplendent in a mix of all-new Adidas, AMI and Burberry, she stepped into a company limo with Luke and Kommissar.

"All right?" Luke asked, surveying her. "You look knackered."

"American –"

"You look stressed."

"Haha, yeah, it's the stress."

Luke, who was used to his nine-to-nine daily slog, only shrugged. "Fancy a granola? Might sort you out."

"How 'bout TV and some scotch?" She yawned and turned to Kommissar. "Can't you just tell them I ate a bad oyster at dinner or something?" Kommissar shook her head. "Rats. I'll just sit in the bar with charcuterie while glaring at everybody."

"You dressed up like a million quid just for charcuterie? You're fucking daft," Luke scoffed. "Think of it this way. You may be making an appearance against your will, but no one's stopping you from having a grand time. Might as well shag."

Beca glanced thoughtfully at Kommissar, recalling the dark circles underneath the German's eyes when she brought Beca coffee this morning. Tonight Kommissar was dressed in a voluptuous black satin pantsuit, simple and yet more glamorous the longer she stared. _Well, _Beca thought, _she's definitely shagging._

"Might as well shag," Beca seconded, stifling another yawn.

* * *

As soon as the shoulder-rubbing and fake-smiling part of the program was over, Beca set out for the dance floors of Black Flamingo, losing herself to scotch cocktails and techno music.

By midnight Luke and Kommissar had paired off on their own. Beca, meanwhile, was getting pretty hot and heavy on the dance floor with a blonde model. Just when she eagerly pressed herself against the girl's gyrating front, Stacie lithely positioned herself behind the girl, moving effortlessly like she wasn't interrupting anything.

Beca was drunk to the gills and didn't recognize her. "Hey, lady, do you mind? She's with me."

"Well, now she's not." Stacie smirked at her brash reaction. "You dummy. It's me."

"Stacie? What the hell?!"

"Have you seen the tabloids this morning? From the expression on your face, I guess you haven't. Bugsy's in ten?"

"Go away. I'm not interested in the Kardashians or whatever right now." Beca pulled the model closer, snaking a possessive hand over her ass.

"You'll be." Stacie, with one quick motion, flipped around the model so that they were now facing each other. "Hi, I can't leave without dancing with you. I'm Stacie Conrad. Sex columnist for _Dazed and Confused._"

"Oh my god," the girl gasped, too surprised to even be mad about being yanked away from Beca all of a sudden. "A sex columnist? For real?"

"You're right – sex columnist doesn't even begin to describe it. Try _God._" Stacie winked and shook the model's hand. "Would you like to sleep with me?"

"Stacie, _not cool_," Beca protested.

"Are you crazy?!" the model cried, looking Stacie up and down. "Fuck yes!"

Beca glared at Stacie, who only shrugged and nonchalantly wrote her number on the girl's palm. "Call me." With a last seductive smile, Stacie took Beca by the back of her collar and dragged her out.

* * *

"I can't believe you stole a girl from me_. Again._"

They were at the usual booth in Bugsy's. Beca knocked back bourbon to soothe her annoyance while Stacie sat opposite her, clearly amused.

"So far she hasn't called. Meaning I haven't stolen her yet."

"She was half-Hungarian!"

Stacie licked her lips. "Oy. What's her name?"

"Carlie."

"You couldn't have handled that anyway, bruh. She's as tall as your bedroom door. You'd have to skip the sixty-nine, your face would've been in her tits the whole time –"

"Pig. I don't know which is worse – your knack for stealing girls right under my nose, or your stupid pick-up line working on them, for fuck's sake." The first was at Provocateur in Meatpacking District two weeks ago.

"It works with the right amount of alcohol, like I told you a hundred times before."

"Can you please just fucking stick to men?"

"If you're that desperate to get laid, why don't you come to my house –"

"Shut up."

Stacie rolled her eyes affectionately. "Tough customer." She took out a bunch of tabloids from her handbag, flicking through before setting them on the table. "So why don't we talk about Alana Mason?"

Beca groaned and put her head in her hands upon seeing the headlines. "Oh, not _again_."

Alana Mason was, for a lack of a better description, Beca's crazy ex-girlfriend. They had met at a party three years ago in LA and Alana had been following her around since. Beca, who was starting to play bigger events at that time, was flattered by the attention coming from the gorgeous pop singer. Then followed a tumultuous four-month relationship that made Beca realize the two of them had nothing in common.

After she apologized and broke up with her, Alana started doing all sorts of revengeful shenanigans to get her attention. It didn't help that Alana recently won Viewers' Choice Award. The girl simply used the attention to land Beca on _Page Six _or Perez Hilton, even when Beca went and politely asked her to stop.

"_Alana's New Single Written for STOKR_," Stacie read, frowning. "My. Are you that good in bed?"

"Damn it. I'm sure this is about..." Beca skimmed the story and groaned again. "'You'll Never Have Anyone Better'. That is so dumb."

"Bad in bed, then." Stacie flipped through some of the other tabloids. "_Alana Disses Producer Ex-GF! Alana Mason Channels Taylor Swift in Latest Single. Alana Calls STOKR 'A Sorry Loser'. Alana: STOKR Will Never Have Anyone Better._ Wow, she's not at all angry with you, huh?" She flung the tabloids back to Beca with a grin. "I better sleep with her!"

Beca fought the urge to flip the table. "How the fuck did you get to that conclusion?"

"Have you not learned anything from me, my little va-genius? Angry chicks are the best at banging! Give me one night with Alana Mason and the next thing you know, her latest single would be 'I'll Never Have Anybody Better than Stacie' –"

"It would be 'Stacie Conrad is a Lecherous Dick'."

Stacie laughed. "That's doesn't even rhyme." Her phone rang. "You've reached Stacie Conrad," she greeted suavely, in the honeyed tone she often used with women. "Hey, girl. Of course. I'm flattered you picked me over that scrawny goth midget you were dancing with..."

Beca rolled her eyes. "Fuck off."

"Yeah, off I fuck," Stacie mouthed, blowing her a lewd kiss.

Beca buried her head further into her arms, tuning out another one of Stacie's mostly-absurd conversations with whoever she decided to sink her claws in. Their trio knew how shallow her ploys were, but they occasionally shared a good laugh at how often they seemed to work. Out in the bars, when Stacie turned on the seduction, sometimes she didn't even have to talk.

Beca's gaze fell to the offending tabloids. In her normal state she couldn't care less about the lives of wealthy stars. But it was 2 am, she was honestly tired, and she couldn't stop her own eyes from roaming the pages with exhausted detachment. _Alana Badmouths STOKR – What Else Is New? Sandy Rivers on 3__rd__ DUI. Workers' Suit Filed Against Hotel Magnate Bartholomew Bass. _Nothing Left Unsaid: _Gloria Vanderbilt and Anderson Cooper Documentary Premieres in SoHo Gallery._ And then she saw it.

Accompanying the headline was a flash-ridden color photo of Gloria Vanderbilt and Anderson Cooper, holding glasses of champagne as they posed with several other impeccably-dressed socialites. Beca turned away in disinterest.

And then alarms started going off in her head. She quickly looked back. The woman on the rightmost –

She'd know those sharp hazel eyes and elegantly coiffed blonde curls anywhere.

"Aubrey," she breathed out.

Stacie heard. She dramatically tossed her phone away and stared at Beca, her gray eyes suddenly excited and knowing. "Aubrey? Did you say _Aubrey_?"

Aubrey. Still so fucking _breathtaking_ even on cheap tabloid paper. In a gossamer white sheath dress and nude lipstick, she looked like a Greek goddess. The tall man beside her, obviously a moneybag, had his arm wrapped around her waist. Beca's heart was sinking as she read the caption. _Fuck fuck fuck she can't be married god damn fuck –_

**L-R:** _Portia Hilfiger and fiancée William Leslie Winthrop, sisters Arabella and Madeleine Seymour, Gloria Vanderbilt, Anderson Cooper, Nicholas Branson-Clark and wife Athena Avery Clark, Laurence Avery Clark, Aubrey Danielle Posen._

"…Beca?"

But Beca was already rising purposefully from the booth. "I have to go," she said hoarsely, gathering her coat and leaving Stacie to look after her, bewildered.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, I swear I will work on _Sometimes I Wish For Falling_ now. Calm your tits. But expect my next update for this fanfic in, I dunno, three months.

Also, poll question: would you be interested in a chapter that's written from Aubrey's perspective?


	7. Aubrey, Act I

**Aubrey**

"I don't care if she's in surgery, let me talk to her!"

Portia was almost pleading on her phone, and Portia Hilfiger never pleaded. Not that Aubrey cared. Everything else in her peripheral seemed distant, even intensely unreal. Neither the biting cold weather nor the deafening sounds of New York traffic could touch on the cruel images seared in her head.

"We're really doing this again?!" Portia cried in frustration. "Chloe Beale, goddamnit! B-E-A-L-E…"

In the bedroom, barely half an hour ago: the smooth planes of a man's back faced them, muscles rippling as he drove his hips forward again and again.

"Please, this is very important."

Concealed from them, another body; only the legs were visible as they hooked around the man's waist.

"Tell her this is about her best friend –"

And then the horrible realization that she recognized the back of the man's head, the neatly-trimmed dark blonde hair.

She used to spend _hours_ running her hands through that hair.

"– something very bad has happened."

The nausea came with no warning. Aubrey only had time to brace herself on the nearest wall before she desperately hurled the contents of her stomach into the pavement.

* * *

Laurence Avery Clark. They had met in their second year at Harvard. Aubrey initially dismissed him as another attractive, loaded stuck-up dandy with a ridiculous collection of Ralph Lauren. And the impression stuck until their first class together, Advanced International Human Rights, where he delivered a counter-argument so empathetic and impressive the professor gave him a free pass on the next exam.

Aubrey had kindly revised her impression to 'attractive dandy' after that.

"Posen."

She looked up from her bag. The bell had just rung, and amidst the flurry of people leaving the auditorium was Laurence, with his tousled crop of dirty-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was the last person she expected to see. They have never really interacted before, aside from casual nods whenever they ran into each other at the library; even now Aubrey struggled to remember his name.

"Clark, right? How can I help you?"

"We're having a party tonight at Landsowne."

She waited, but Laurence seemed to be done talking. "When people say that, it is usually followed with an invitation."

Laurence chuckled. "Right. You're right. Well, would you like to come? It's the recruitment party for the Harvard Legal Aid Bureau."

"I thought HLAB only recruits 1L students."

"Yeah, but any current law student can apply for a summer fellowship. And sometimes we pick Harvard 2Ls from the interns to join Legal Aid for good come fall."

"So you're already recruiting me for the summer fellowship?" Aubrey raised her eyebrow. "Don't you guys usually hold a year-end recruitment party for that?"

"Yeah, well…" Laurence ran a hand through his hair, and Aubrey was amused that she was already starting to make this normally-laidback sophomore nervous. "We kind of just really want you to join the bureau."

"Why?"

"Uh, because topping Harvard Law Review's editorial competition tends to makes everyone want you?" His eyes shone enthusiastically as he talked, and Aubrey was flattered. "I mean, I can't be the first organization to recruit you."

"Not really."

"So are you coming?" he asked. "The first part mostly sucks – we just elected our student board of directors, so our new president is giving an acceptance speech, and it's a real snooze fest. But the second part is free food and drinks and some really smart people…a lot of them are cute, if you're into that," he grinned.

"Alright. I'm sold." She smiled at him, gathered her things and stood. "By the way, who succeeded Elena Guzman as HLAB president? Was it Laurence…"

"Avery Clark? Yeah." His grin grew wider. "This is strange. I don't normally refer to myself in third person."

"Oh!" It was Aubrey's turn to be embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Professors are always calling us by our surnames, and this is the first time we've…"

"It's cool. To make it official, I'm Laurence. Laurence Avery Clark." He put out his hand, and Aubrey shook it.

"Aubrey Danielle Posen."

"I know." He grinned again. "I looked you up. It was hard not to."

* * *

Two months into working with him at HLAB, she grudgingly told him he would make for a brilliant lawyer. He returned the compliment, albeit with more enthusiasm, and then asked her out.

Being with him was easier than anything else Aubrey has ever had in the past. While she found him somewhat inexperienced he was compassionate and caring, and he sought to learn her with admirable tenacity until he could make her come in his sleep. Beyond his charming boyish exterior was a levelheaded man who always took responsibility for his actions. He easily matched her intelligence and determination, and over time she could no longer deny how much she had grown to love him.

It took another year for Aubrey to realize Laurence's connection to the Clark-Rockefeller family of New York. He took special care to conceal that part of himself, he explained, because people almost always treated him differently after learning his family ties with the banking clan. She did not. With her own tumultuous family history she understood his reservation. He, in turn, respected her refusal to discuss hers.

Aubrey could still remember the day of their engagement with astounding clarity. It was a Thursday, two months before graduation, after a particularly trying mock trial exam. They lay naked in bed. He stroked the length of her back intimately; she found herself sinking into a heavy stupor, the aftermath of sex and mental exhaustion.

"Mother called this morning."

"Has no one ever told you not to mention your mother in bed?" Then Aubrey turned to face him, and found his expression completely serious. "Well?"

"She's having a difficult time. My brother-in-law Nick somehow found a loophole that lets him take control of Athena's Chase shares, and now he's trying to buy out my mom's stock. Our family lawyer's health has taken a turn for the worse…"

"First-world problems, huh?"

"You make light of it, but I don't think I can escape the whole thing anymore." He sighed. "As soon as graduation is over, I am returning to New York."

She stroked his face, but said nothing.

"I don't know why I even bothered with law. Banking was always where I was headed anyway." He massaged his temple dejectedly. "I should just suck it up. Be a man and all that bullshit."

"You are a man. Taking a completely different path from your family proves that."

"Yes, but as it turns out I can't just abandon them like that. People have this enormous expectation of the Avery-Clarks. With my sister outwitted by Nick, I'm the only one who can keep our remaining assets with JPMorgan and Chase…" He shook his head. "Christ, listen to me. I already sound like an asshole."

"As long as you're this self-aware, you are not. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." He sighed again. "But I have to take control of the Western Hemisphere group, or higher. It's where Nick holds court right now."

"I'm sorry. I wish things could be easier."

He looked at her, his expression even more drained than before. The mere mention of his family always gave him that look. The dark circles underneath his eyes bothered her. He was usually so refined, and she could tell this troubled him more than anything law school could ever throw at them.

"Come with me."

She was taken aback. "To New York?"

"Boston is wonderful, and I know you've already got a job lined up downtown. It's too much to even ask…"

He suddenly sat up, casting the sheets off as he reached for something in his bedside drawer. When he turned to face Aubrey, he had a small jewelry box in his hand.

Aubrey's heart beat faster when his trembling fingers opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

"Oh my god. Laurence..."

"I was going to wait until farewell dinner, but this is the moment I want to remember for the rest of my life." His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke the next words. "I could no longer recall a time when you weren't there to complete me. If you will consider making space in your future for New York…for me…then please come with me. Marry me."

She didn't even think. "Yes." She pulled Laurence to her, kissing him deeply. "Yes," she murmured against his lips. "I'll marry you. I'll follow you anywhere."

This brought tears to his eyes. "Bree, you just made me the happiest man in the world."

"And I the happiest woman. Laurence, I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

Aubrey had no reason to regret the impulsive decision. While she had grown to consider Boston as her hometown New York was simply incomparable, with its diversity and color and unexpected kindnesses of its otherwise-jaded people. She found her own curious nature sated – even overwhelmed – by the endless possibilities at every turn.

Her job at Bristol and Cahill was predictably exhausting. The law firm specialized in employment and labor, their practice mostly composed of big business and community involvement cases. But while Aubrey and her fellow associates worked almost fifty hours a week their efforts and opinions were highly workplace was also competitive and less bureaucratic than previous firms she interned with.

Another upside was Chloe, who lived two hours away now instead of seven. Being able to hang out with her inherently-positive best friend helped Aubrey adapt quicker than she thought possible. She even loved the loft Laurence found for her in Brooklyn. It was a converted nineteenth-century firehouse, and while it was smaller than the apartment they shared in Boston, she felt happily ensconced in its cosy exposed-brick walls.

On weekdays Laurence lived at Beekman Place, the Clarks' family home in Manhattan. His elderly mother Helena lived alone there and he worried about her. Aubrey was initially unhappy about this arrangement, but understood. He made up for it by spending weekends with her in Brooklyn; he would often joke that she was both his fiancée and mistress.

Three months in, within that charming apartment, Aubrey saw the first sign of trouble.

"What do you mean, no one knows we're engaged?"

Laurence cradled his head in his hands. "I haven't told my family. I haven't told anyone. Mother would have very harsh words to say if she learned I put myself before the company…"

"Then why did you ask me to marry you, fully knowing your mother wouldn't approve?"

"Because I wanted to. Because I love you."

"Bullshit! You did because you were being selfish."

Laurence winced. He hated it when she swore. "You wanted it too."

"I did, with the implicit understanding that it wasn't going to be hidden away like some juvenile shotgun engagement. We are grownups, for God's sake!"

"We are not hiding! I don't care if everyone else knows. Just not –"

"Is this why we are living in Brooklyn? So your mom would never see us together?"

"No! You know how expensive rents are downtown. If you would only let me pay half your rent, we could easily –"

"You are lying."

He tried to reach for her but she furiously spurned him, sitting as far away from him as possible. Laurence's shoulders sagged.

"That is part of the reason, yes," he admitted. "But there are other factors too – the price of rent downtown, the cramped living spaces…"

"So where does your mother think you disappear to on weekends?"

"I told her I have a potential business venture for Chase in Brooklyn."

"You disappoint me," she spat bitterly, drawing a certain satisfaction at watching his face fall. It hardly measured up to the betrayal she felt at the moment.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"True, because the perfect moment would have been at our rehearsal dinner. What the fuck, Laurence?"

"Can we please remain civil? I assure you, I am suffering just as much. You know I love you. But I don't need to explain again how fragile my mother is at the moment. Telling her about our engagement will only upset her. I have to ease her into it…"

"Have you started?"

He shook his head unhappily.

"Does she even know you have a girlfriend?"

He shook his head again, and Aubrey wanted to slap him. "You'd better have an excellent explanation, Laurence, because right now I have half a mind to break up with you."

"Bree, please. I will eventually tell all the people I can trust, but Mother will be the last. I have a business plan. If it succeeds, her approval would no longer matter. She'll owe me. And I'll be free to do as I wish."

"And how long is that going to take?"

"A year."

"A _year?!"_

"I know it's taking longer than we expected. You have to understand. I am trying to rally my cousins to back my bid for the Western Hemisphere group, but not all of them could see I make for a better businessman than Nick."

She took a deep breath. "And then?"

"And then hopefully I get voted CFO." Laurence stepped closer and knelt before Aubrey, in a second attempt to appease her. "Then I will take you to dinner with Mother, and you're so lovely she will have no choice but to adore you..." He kissed her hands as his own stroked up the side of her legs, rising high enough to drag the material of her skirt upwards. She tried to reject him by twisting her body away. He merely retaliated by slipping his hands underneath her blouse. "Six months after that we'll be married in the Hamptons…anywhere you want," he corrected with a smile, when Aubrey managed to gather a shred of mental fortitude to raise her eyebrow. It didn't last long.

"Did you think you're the only one hurting from the fact that no one knows you're mine?" He parted her legs and breathed the words in a trail, marking a hot path on her inner thigh with his lips. Through half-closed eyes she saw the bulge straining against the front of his slacks. It took all her willpower not to massage it with her bare foot. "Do you know how badly I want to make you Mrs. Aubrey Posen-Clark?"

"That's enough, Laurence," she gasped, unable to control her body from responding under his attentions. "You're devious. But I am still mad."

"I never meant to deceive you," he said, pulling back and looking up at her seriously. "I'm sorry. I admit to being selfish. But only because I can't ever imagine life without you."

"A year," she repeated.

"A year. Your patience is all I ask."

Aubrey sighed. "It's not ideal, but I will try and understand."

"Thank you," he breathed in relief.

"And this is the last time you lie or hide something from me."

"Okay."

"I mean it. I did not move two hundred miles away from Boston just to be toyed with."

"I would never do that. Do you still believe in me?"

She took his face in her hands, the answer coming to her easily. "I do."

"Will you let me make it up to you?"

"How?"

He inched his hands underneath her skirt again. She rolled her eyes. Still, she couldn't resist a laugh when he pushed his face between her legs.

* * *

By her eighth month in New York Aubrey had been introduced as fiancée to select important figures in Laurence's circle: his older sister Athena Avery-Clark, his best friends William Winthrop and Portia Hilfiger, and some close friends from his time at Dalton School.

All of them had varying degrees of immense wealth, privilege or fame. Little by little, she understood Laurence's apprehension at how their engagement would sit with his mother. He and his family lived in an elite sophisticated bubble, the richest of Manhattan and possibly half the world. With everyone practically catering to the Clark-Rockefellers, Laurence could have any of the pedigreed princesses, supermodels, heiresses, actresses, politicians and businesswomen who regularly walked through Beekman Place – the one place in Laurence's life Aubrey had never set foot in.

Aubrey was mostly unfazed. She could tell the pensive Athena was impressed by her wit, William found her delightful enough to invite her to tea often, and Portia simply adored her. The chatty fashion heiress loved to take her shopping and let her take her pick of New York's best parties any evening. Whenever Aubrey walked into one of them, with or without Laurence next to her, she confidently held her own.

That is, until she met Arabella Seymour.

* * *

Like any other couple, Aubrey and Laurence had their traditions. The best was their occasional weekend trips to Montauk. The Long Island beach town was Laurence's favorite place: he had been surfing there since childhood with his Dalton friends, and it was one of the first places he brought Aubrey to when he picked up his life again in New York.

Aubrey lived for these weekends. The local surfers treated Laurence as one of their own, and every morning he would be on the waves while Aubrey lounged at shore with drinks and a good book. After a long lunch they would ride horses at William's family ranch or go hiking at the beach trails. More often than not they would end up back at the Clarks' beach house, where Laurence would undress her carefully, kiss her until she turned to putty in his hands, and make love to her over and over until they lost awareness of time.

One calm Saturday Laurence got ready to paddle out to sea. Aubrey watched him putting on his wetsuit, her own body still sweetly heavy from the previous night's activities. He was, as always, a sight to behold – blonde locks messed up by the early morning breeze, his lean chiseled torso bared to the sun. When his bright blue eyes caught hers he winked roguishly and grinned.

And then all she could think of was the night ahead of them. The way he would slowly rock in and out of her. She would wrap her legs around his waist, sometimes even around his shoulders. And it would be their unspoken cue to start racing for an orgasm that drew closer and closer as they moved together in perfect rhythm. He would say her name in a long, guttural groan against her neck when they came.

He'd whisper 'Mrs. Clark' in her ear afterwards, and it never failed to make her smile.

Her reverie was interrupted by a squeal. "Laurence!" A dark-haired girl, also clad in a wetsuit, was approaching them from the opposite side of the beach. Laurence's face lit up in recognition.

"Arry!" He held out his arms and the other girl practically ran straight to him. He lifted her off the sand, their mingled laughter echoing in the cliffs around them. "I didn't know you were in New York!"

"I dropped by Beekman Place and your mum said you were here," the girl responded. Aubrey did not miss the fact that she kept her arms entwined around Laurence's neck. "Aunt Helena looks well, so Maddy and I moved on to the Hamptons. Then Maddy's boyfriend joined her last week…I've been traveling alone since." She glanced at Aubrey, and Laurence finally noticed.

"This is my fiancée Aubrey Posen." Laurence took her hand, which did not give her a shred of comfort. "Bree, this is Arabella Seymour. She's my cousin from London."

"Hello." She gave Aubrey a kiss on both cheeks. "Oh, aren't you lovely! Laurence, I can't believe your mum never mentioned your engagement!"

Aubrey had never met anyone who oozed such tremendous aura, with the probable exception of Stacie Conrad. But Arabella was a notch above: coquettish but cool, brazen but teasingly so. She was also sensually attractive, with her dark curls, green eyes and a strikingly statuesque figure.

"Don't worry. I'm less likely to spill the beans than Portia, she can be rather daft," Arabella was saying; Aubrey grew increasingly uneasy with her for reasons she could hardly explain. But then again she was very fond of Portia, and so that must be it – and she didn't miss the way Laurence barely blinked at the insult either, which was deeply uncharacteristic of her usually-upright fiancé.

She was startled when Arabella grabbed her arm enthusiastically. "Tell me all about it! Laurence and I practically grew up together – I bet I could interest you with stories about his wilder days, hm?"

"Now, now, Arry, don't embarrass me," Laurence laughed.

"Oh, there is so much to tell! Did you know Laurence taught me how to swim here?"

"I forgot about that! We practically discovered Camp Hero!"

"Remember the locals won't let us in at first? The pecking order here was really established before we came."

"It still is. And you know people can only surf here until eleven a.m. now? Fishermen get the area afterwards so you'd have to move to Ditch Plains in the afternoon. It's a travesty."

Arabella looked at her watch. "We should get going, then! Aubrey, you don't surf?"

"Nah, she stays on shore to watch me," Laurence smirked. "Come on. I just about perfected my aerial."

"Rubbish!"

"No, really. I still have to grab the board though."

"That's wicked. Speaking of – I finally got my handshaped Dick Brewer board!"

"No fucking way! I thought he only makes boards for big-wave dudes now."

"That's true. I paid a bloody absurd amount of quid so he'd design one for me. We hung out at his shop in Kauai while he made it. He traced the pattern by pencil and carved the balsa wood all by himself…it was transcendental watching him work, I tell you."

"Sweet. Can I have a go?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Should I be worried?" Aubrey teased Laurence, as they watched Arabella's form receding into the water.

Laurence smiled at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek, although she could tell he was still distracted. "She's my cousin."

* * *

Aubrey didn't like the way Laurence ploughed into her that night – hard and fast, a change of pace she normally would have welcomed if he wasn't rushing to finish right away. But he was callous to her pleasure as he unapologetically rammed in and out to complete his own. He came with a cry and collapsed on top of her, panting heavily; despite his overheated body covering every inch of hers, she felt cold.

"What's got into you?"

He didn't look up from nuzzling her breasts. "I don't know."

* * *

"What do you know about Arabella?"

Portia Hilfiger rolled her eyes as she zipped the back of Aubrey's dress. The sweet-faced brunette was a couple of years younger than her, but possessed more worldliness and grace than anyone else Aubrey knew. Portia was a social butterfly with charm, ambition and sarcasm to match. Of all of Laurence's friends she was Aubrey's favorite.

That day they were at Portia's condo to help her choose an outfit for a charity event. Aubrey couldn't understand how Portia roped Chloe into it, much more how she cajoled them into trying on the clothes themselves. But Aubrey suspected it had something to do with their distraction: Portia rattled off a hundred enthralling stories about _everything_, from her new dri-fit line with Uniqlo to that time she puked on David Gandy's shoes.

"She's a total Sloaney," Portia scoffed. "And a total skank."

"What's a Sloaney?" Chloe asked.

"You know, loaded British gentry. Went to Queen's Gate, dated the entire Exeter polo team, has a nickname fit for frilly pet dogs, woefully anti-intellectualist…" Chloe winced at the harsh description, but Portia only laughed. "Oh, Chloe. I forget how nice you are sometimes. Arry does have a saving grace: she's not just a poseur. Her family is legitimate upper-class. Like, her grandpa used to play polo with Princess D." She turned to Aubrey. "Unfortunately she's more of that viper, Camilla. Laurence introduced you? When?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"At Long Island? Was she all, 'oh, Laurence and I grew up together! He taught me to swim! Aunt Helena loves me!'?"

"Spot-on."

Portia tutted. "Before Laurence left for Harvard, Arabella would occasionally come down here in the summer. They'd traipse to Montauk then move their way to Ruggles or even Maine…god knows what they do there but it's guaranteed you won't see them 'til the end of summer break. Doesn't matter if we already made plans for Nantucket or Caribbean or Paris, oh, when Arry comes around she's got Laurence wrapped around her finger. He had an argument with Will one time because we refused to take her on our sailing trip to Vermont. We previously agreed it was best friends only, and Will flipped out at the thought of having Arry on his yacht for ten straight days…but who wouldn't?"

Aubrey glanced at Chloe, unsettled. The latter nodded at her imperceptibly, trying to comfort her.

"Should I be worried?"

"Oh, no!" Portia exclaimed, looking at both of them in the full-length mirror. "There is nothing to worry about. Laurence adores you! I wasn't implying anything, Bree, I swear. I'm not a fan of Arabella, so I do tend to get carried away. She is _such_ a tramp...oh, I'm doing it again. Oh, dear. I am hopeless."

"Portia, that does not reassure me at all."

"They're cousins." Portia couldn't quite meet her eye. "I wouldn't think much of it."

* * *

Portia's fiancé William Leslie Winthrop was much more reticent. His father served as the current consul general in Belfast, and despite having lived in New York for most of his life, the young doctor retained the same discretion as his British family.

They were at his home having tea – an occasion Aubrey used to look forward to – when she sprung the question about Arabella. William's face creased briefly.

"Laurence is very fond of her."

"I've heard."

"He ditches us and everything else whenever she is in town. How do you know her?"

"We ran into her during our Montauk trip."

"Ah. I think Laurence can best answer that question. I barely know her."

"Oh, we've talked about her," Aubrey lied airily. "We're going to Montauk with her at the end of the month. I am in charge of planning, and I was hoping to do something nice for Arabella while we're there…something that would also surprise Laurence, so please don't mention it to him."

He smiled. "I see. That's very kind of you, Aubrey. I wish you luck."

He wasn't going to say more, so Aubrey tried a different tack. "I'm really at a loss here, Will. I tried asking Portia, and it turns out she has very strong opinions on Arabella…so I thought I'd be better off asking you," she ended with an apologetic laugh.

William sighed.

"She and Arabella has this long-standing row. I honestly don't care for her so much, either. She can be very exhausting…we avoid her as much as possible."

"But Laurence didn't mind that?"

He nodded. "They have been close since childhood. Helena – Laurence's mum – she is very fond of the Seymour side of the family. Whenever they were in New York Laurence and Athena were tasked with entertaining Arry, along with her sister Maddy. Eventually Arry would just visit by herself, and Laurence would show her around."

"What do they do?"

"They surf."

Aubrey remained silent, waiting for him to say more.

"Amongst other things," he eventually tacked on.

"What things?"

The reticent doctor sighed again. "Drinking. Snorting. Self-indulgent things…but this was during our time at Dalton. Laurence has outgrown it."

"Should I be worried?" It had become somewhat of a refrain these past few weeks, mostly to Chloe, and Aubrey was starting to hate herself for asking.

William's answer was not the comfort she had hoped for. "I don't think so." He cleared his throat and tried again for a more diplomatic answer, as he was often prone to do when speaking of delicate matters. "They're cousins. I am sure there is nothing to worry about."

* * *

"I could just be inferring things," Aubrey confided to Chloe. They were at the redhead's house, drunk on margaritas and bingeing on Chloe's Netflix selection. Laurence canceled on her last minute – he had to pull a bunch of all-nighters at work over the weekend.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I could just be seeing and hearing the things that validate my jealousy. It's irrational, when I think about it. Laurence and Arabella are cousins."

"So in layman's terms, you're being crazy."

"As much as I hate to admit it, yes." Aubrey leaned on her best friend's shoulder, and Chloe put an arm around her. "It doesn't help that she's _everywhere. _You know how you'd meet someone and afterwards you run into them all the time? I saw her in all the events I've gone to last month. I swear she was even at the Bristol and Cahill anniversary party."

"Maybe you're bisexual and you're falling in love with her."

Aubrey snorted. "Shut up. Seriously, what is wrong with me? It's not like I've ever seen them do anything suspicious. And every time I meet her she has some baron or rockstar hanging off her arm."

"Not to validate your crazy, but there is such a thing as 'female intuition'."

"That's ridiculous. The fact that it's called 'intuition' means it's not supported by any empirical data…" Chloe shook her head at Aubrey, often a signal to indicate she's getting carried away, and she abruptly stopped. "Well, whatever it is, I just can't let it go. Help me! This is getting out of hand."

"Again, not to validate your crazy, but I've never seen you this jealous in, like…" Chloe mulled for a moment, "…_ever_. Not even when your ex tried to kiss Unicycle at your birthday party in Myrtle Beach. Who was that guy again?"

"Oliver." Aubrey chuckled, forgetting her worries for a moment. "He's officially gay now."

"And there was Economics Major Guy. Third year. You were pretty sure he was hooking up with that slutty club promoter…"

"That's Charles. I wanted to scalp that club promoter, but ultimately decided he wasn't worth it."

"Oooh, that guy you dated from your hometown then! The Christian dude who gave you the tacky promise bracelet and swore he will always love you, and then impregnated your high school best friend a month into college?"

"Jacob. Oh my god, Chlo, how are you so bad with names? You're training to be a surgeon!"

"I know, right? Can you believe they let me cut up twenty-ounce babies?"

"Maybe you should rephrase that…"

Chloe bounced on the couch, suddenly excited. "Ooh, wait. I have seen you get jealous!"

"What?" Aubrey prided herself on being the emotionally-stable half when it came to romantic relationships, so this was a surprise. "When?"

"Fourth year."

"But I wasn't dating anyone in fourth…" the redhead's sly grin made Aubrey realize who she was pertaining to, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, not this again."

"Admit it. You were super jealous whenever I hung out with Beca!"

"No."

"Bree, you were really concerned that I'd trade you up for Beca even when I kept telling you I just wanted to date her. Come on!" She unsteadily reached for Aubrey's jaw, trying to simulate speech by forcing it open and closed. "Say it. I. Was. Jealous."

Even six years later Aubrey hadn't had the heart to correct her oblivious best friend. But she'd rather jump from the Empire State Building rather than retroactively hurt Chloe with the fact that once upon a time, she somehow found something attractive about Beca Mitchell. "I was jealous," Aubrey finally deadpanned. It wasn't a lie.

The effect on Chloe was amusing to watch: her face opened into a radiant smile, and she leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Eww, your lips are cold."

"I love you too, Bree." Her warm blue eyes reminded Aubrey of Laurence again; her face must have crumpled or something, because Chloe pushed another glass of margarita in her hand. "More of this, then. So what is it with this Arabella woman? Did she touch Laurence in some weird way or something?"

Aubrey thought about it. "There's something about their closeness," she finally concluded. "It's just…too intimate. Remember how Cynthia Rose would sometimes just put her arms around Denise during Bella practice, all cool and casual? And how they would always stand and talk way too close to each other?"

"But I do that to you all the time."

"Only because you're an anomaly."

Chloe laughed. "So Laurence and Arabella used to be lovers?"

"I don't know. But the way they are when they're together doesn't just stem from a close childhood or whatever."

"So…like Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin in 'It's Complicated'?"

"Yes!" In her excitement at Chloe nailing it Aubrey almost spilled some margarita in her lap. "Yes, that exactly. It has intent."

"Okay. But you have to admit Portia's intel on Arabella may have added to your paranoia too. Did you try asking her fiancé?"

"William's answer wasn't reassuring either – he actually insinuated that Laurence and Arabella used to do coke."

"…wow. Laurence doesn't seem the type to have it in him."

"I know." Aubrey massaged her temple – she was never good at drinking, and the third glass was fogging her brain. "I should just drop it. Honestly, have you seen the way Laurence looks at me sometimes? He's a wonderful man, dependable, incredibly witty, self-possessed. So far I haven't done or said anything he wasn't able to match. I have nothing to complain about."

"You've been saying that since last week, and yet you wouldn't let it go." Chloe fell deep in thought. "Tell you what," she finally said. "I'll go meet this woman, and then I'll tell you if you're just being a crazy ho."

"Thank you. That would be such a relief." Aubrey sighed and leaned on her arm again. "Now that I think about it, are you sure you're a decent judge of character? You did date Tom DeMarco…"

"And you never let me forget it." Chloe shook her off good-naturedly. "Can you blame me? He played soccer, so he had _incredible_ hip muscles."

"I thought as much, if the screams in your bedroom whenever he visited our old apartment were anything to go by."

"He was also really good in the shower…"

"I did not need to know that."

* * *

"What are we doing tomorrow?"

They were in the apartment, having just come back from dinner. Laurence had loosened his tie. Aubrey leaned on his chest, having kicked off her heels and stretched her legs on the couch.

"I actually have to get back to the city early, baby." The arm that cradled Aubrey tensed for a moment. "Have to go to this Dalton alumni lunch. I'd take you, but these things are exclusive – not to mention they're boring and stretch 'til midnight…"

"It's alright." It wasn't, but lately Laurence had been so busy that she was surprised he was staying over at all. She knew better than to make him feel bad about it. Laurence himself reminded her that his one-year deadline was looming, and he needed to cover all his bases in the company before going head to head with his brother-in-law. "You deserve the break."

His responding smile is tired. "It's more of a business engagement, actually. Some schoolmates from Goldman-Sachs are attending. I need their advice on what can effectively drive down Nick's stocks at –"

"No more business talk, please." She fingered the stubble on his chin with a pang. With everything that was happening lately, he no longer even bothered to shave. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too." His arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry, Bree. There are just too many things left to be done."

"Promise me it's all for me," she found herself saying. She had tried so hard to push thoughts of Arabella out of her mind, but his increasing unavailability over the past weeks were not helping. If Aubrey wasn't the only one…god, she loved him too much.

"Of course, baby. It's all for us."

And she wanted to believe him so badly.

* * *

Twelve hours later, she caught the lie: not only did Portia invite her to the same lunch, she even begged her to bring Chloe.

Even worse, the first person Aubrey spotted when they entered the swanky Madison restaurant was Arabella Seymour. _Of course. _Portia, who was scanning the room for William, saw her too.

"What is that wench doing here?" she muttered in distaste.

William approached, greeting them warmly until he encountered his fiancée's sour expression. "What's wrong?" He followed Portia's gaze. "Oh."

"Laurence brought her?" Aubrey asked them, trying not to sound as faint as she felt.

"I am going to _murder _him." Portia stomped as stately as she could to the center of the room. William nodded to them apologetically and followed. Next to Aubrey, Chloe tried to make sense of what happened.

"Arabella is here? Which one?"

"Look at the bar. She's in the black dress with white collars."

Chloe caught a glimpse and gasped.

"You didn't tell me you were talking about Arabella Seymour."

"Who else have I been talking about all January?"

"No, I mean I know her name is Arabella, but I didn't know it was _the_ Arabella Seymour." Aubrey stared at her, unable to comprehend the context. "Okay. Don't panic, but she's an actress."

"…you have got to be fucking _kidding._"

"No. She's mostly in foreign art house films – she had a Cannes entry last year with the yummy silver fox guy in _Black Swan_."

"Vincent Cassel." Aubrey flagged down a passing server with glasses of liquor; she took a sip of wine, and then just went ahead and drained the glass in frustration. "Great, now I am up against an actress!"

"Bree. Bree, slow down." Chloe squeezed her hand. "Nothing's happened yet, okay? We talked about this. I'm checking her out so we can put an end to your crazy once and for all, remember? Now breathe."

"What am I supposed to think? Laurence said this was exclusive to Dalton alumni only, and now it turns out he brought her –"

"You don't know that," Chloe snapped firmly. "For all we know, she could be here with someone else." She turned back to Arabella's direction and gasped again, this time in dismay.

Laurence, dapper as usual in a white button-down shirt and tan jacket, was walking towards Arabella. She tugged at the lapel of his jacket until he sat and then whispered something in his ear. Their laughter was barely audible from the other side of the room where Aubrey stood, but she did not miss the way Arabella's hand crept up to Laurence's, the way she stared at him with open coquettishness. The way her other hand settled easily on his thigh, smoothly rubbing up and down on the expensive material of his jeans.

Laurence reciprocated to all of it by simply brushing the hair out of Arabella's eyes.

"Aubrey," Chloe warned tersely. She hardly realized she was moving forward until hearing her name; all hopes of misunderstanding she had before were instantly replaced by white-hot anger. Chloe caught up to her, prying the empty wineglass from her steel grip.

"You see it too, right?" Aubrey asked through gritted teeth.

"I do." Chloe's mouth was set in a thin line. "I'm sorry, Bree. Let's get out of here."

* * *

"Miles promised he was gonna help me with the documents, so at least I've got that covered. I can't believe Athena survived this long without a personal financial advisor – I bet if I get my lawyer to look at her prenup agreement, it would say she has to hand everything to Nick in the event they get divorced. Seriously, it's like Professor Anaheim's first lesson in Taxation 101…"

Dinner in the city on a Tuesday night would have usually brightened Aubrey's mood, but her entire week after the Dalton lunch had been too hellish for her to enjoy anything else. The doubt, the punishing work hours, the everyday traffic, the testiness of Manhattan, the unnerving realization that so much of her life actually hinged on Laurence: it was getting to her.

And here was Laurence, prattling on like everything wasn't falling apart.

"Honey," she interrupted, pointedly. "I was with Portia at Madison last Saturday afternoon."

Laurence trailed off mid-sentence. Clearly he had underestimated her closeness with Portia and William. When he spoke again, however, his face was impassive.

"The Dalton alumni lunch?" And then, "I didn't see you there."

"Funny. You said it was exclusive, and yet I saw you with Arabella."

He barely blinked. "I only learned that when I got there," he retorted silkily, thumbing his tie. "Arabella came to visit Mom, so she was already in the area. I needed someone to charm the socks off the Goldman-Sachs boys so they'd reveal their trade secrets." He took her hand, sweeping his thumb across her knuckles, barely looking at the waiter who dropped off their entrees. "Why didn't you approach me, baby? It could have been you."

It came out biting and harsh, the opposite of what she intended.

"What is going on with you and Arabella?"

Laurence regarded her incredulously. "You can't be serious. She's my cousin."

"Then why doesn't she act like it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The _touches_, Laurence," she said exasperatedly – it's insulting, really, how he could possibly think she would never notice. "She's touching you all the damn time. Holding your hand, stroking your leg. That's too close for cousins, don't you think?"

His expression darkened. "What the hell are you implying?"

"I'm just telling you what I saw."

"Well, whatever it is you _think _you saw, you're wrong."

"Do you have a history with Arabella I should know about?"

"No, goddamnit!" People at the nearest tables glanced at them, jolted by the sudden loudness of his voice. "You think I'm stupid enough to have an affair with my_ cousin_?" he hissed furiously. "I treat you like a queen, I bust my ass so you could marry me in a year, and you reciprocate by accusing me of incest. Are you trying to ruin everything we have ever worked for? Is that what you want?"

She pulled her hand back. "I'm not the one actively doing anything to cast doubt on our engagement," she stated coldly.

"Arabella and I have been close since childhood. You know that. What else do you want me to say?"

"Have you had any interactions with her that can be construed as intimate?"

"I can't believe we're still talking about this."

"I have to know."

Laurence pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. She taught me how to kiss."

Aubrey kept her neutral expression. "See? You never told me this before. When?"

"Sixth grade."

"And you've never done anything that can be called romantic or sexual ever since?"

"No."

"No one has ever said anything strange about your relationship with her?"

"Dammit, Bree. Do you really have to treat me like a criminal?"

"If you can honestly tell me no one else has ever commented on how you two act when you're together, I'll drop it."

"Fine. No one. You're the only one making all these outrageous accusations."

She sighed and searched his face warily for a few moments.

"Okay. Dropped."

"Good. Get this bullshit out of your head, Bree. I mean it."

She picked up her fork and knife, unable to remember when his words started sounding so hollow in her ears.

* * *

"You ditched me at Madison!"

Another weekend without Laurence – he was accompanying his mother to a funeral in the Bronx – and so Aubrey was spending an afternoon with Portia, who stared daggers at her over coffee and macarons.

She rearranged her face into an apologetic expression. "Chloe had a Chanel emergency," she said, phrasing the lie in the only way it would catch Portia's sympathy. "Did you end up murdering Laurence after all? Because when we had dinner last Tuesday he looked very much alive to me."

Portia rolled her eyes. "I would have, if I wasn't sidetracked by my ever-loving William – bless him and his manners. I swear he's the only reason I don't make _Page Six _every week. Anyway, we ran into Anderson, and by the time he was done charming us I couldn't find Laurence or Arabella anywhere."

Her tirade was interrupted by a chirp; her phone was ringing.

"Weird." She regarded it thoughtfully. "I hate to be impolite, but do you mind if I take this? Athena's never called me before."

"Sure."

She came back some time later with an agitated expression.

"We have to go."

Over years of rigorous Bella training Aubrey had accomplished the art of being graceful under pressure, so she only tilted her head at this new development. "What happened?"

"Emilia Hearst fucking happened." Portia led the way to the street, waving impatiently for a cab. Aware of the futility of her actions, Aubrey put her thumb and forefinger to her mouth and let out a commanding whistle. Two cabs jostled for their attention in a matter of seconds.

"How did you do that?"

"_Breakfast at Tiffany's,_" Aubrey replied. "Where are we going? Who is Emilia Hearst?"

"Oh, that wretched old hag." Portia rolled her eyes. "Dead and still terrorizing the living, which is really all the Hearst Empire does, now that I think about it. Anyway, Athena is at the funeral with Aunt Helena, right? The Hearst family lawyer spoke with them. Apparently one of Emilia's final wishes is the return of a vintage diamond and ruby brooch Aunt Helena borrowed…in 1959!"

Aubrey fought the urge to roll her eyes. As a labor lawyer who toiled to resolve working-class struggles every day, this stretch for a piece of jewelry is just ludicrous. "Are you serious?"

"I know, right? Vampires, the lot of them."

"No. I mean, a brooch is causing this entire stir?"

"People take these snubs very seriously, Bree," Portia answered solemnly. "If Aunt Helena fails to return it, it's practically social suicide for the Clark-Rockefellers. And that brooch is worth millions of dollars. _Of course_ it will cause a stir."

Aubrey gave up. "So where are we going?"

"Beekman Place."

Aubrey felt a disconcerting chill go up her spine. She was going to see Laurence's home for the first time. She had always imagined it going differently: weightlessly happy as he stood next to her, secure in the knowledge that they were only for each other.

"Does Laurence know I'm coming?"

"Oh my god, you're _that _couple?" Portia rolled her eyes. "Fine. Go call your boyfriend, clingy."

"No, I was just…" Aubrey shook her head – Portia probably wouldn't understand anyway. "He came with them to the Bronx. I'm sure he knows."

"Don't worry about it, okay? We won't take long."

"Why did you even take me?"

"Because I need a witness while I'm opening the family safe, so I can prove I'm not a pleb if something goes missing."

"Fair point."

* * *

The Clark penthouse was one of the most elegant homes Aubrey has ever seen: granite pillars, checked black-and-white floors, Parisian furniture in shades of white and cream. An extravagant gold and diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Portia, however, did not let her linger long. "Come on," she said, pulling her along the spiral staircase to Helena Avery Clark's bedroom.

* * *

"I still can't find it," Portia groused an hour later, flopping face-down on the king-sized bed.

Neither could Aubrey. She had meticulously searched the contents of the safe, but going through the sizeable sheaf of documents, cash, and jewelry boxes for the third time yielded no brooch. Portia checked the other drawers and cabinets in the room with similar results.

"Well, call Athena and tell her."

"She's out of reach. Not like I'm dying for her to answer, anyway. She can be so intimidating." Portia sighed. "Do you ever get scared of Athena, Bree?"

Aubrey had never considered it before. Athena Avery Clark, as did her younger brother, had a lovely face – but the similarities end there. She cut a thin, visually-striking figure; her impassive blue eyes, alabaster skin, sharp high cheekbones and cropped silvery hair breathed the impression of an otherworldly Grecian sculpture come to life. And she lived the myth. While outwardly civil as most New York socialites are wont to be, Aubrey never shook off the feeling that Athena was merely a tourist – an ageless one at that – living in a different plane of existence from the rest of them. Her husband Nicholas Branson-Clark and her art gallery in Bedford were just necessary instruments to assimilate with mortals.

"No. But I see why you'd be."

"Lucky you. Even Nick found her so imposing _he_ changed his name after they got married. She rarely ever asks me for anything, you know? I'd hate to disappoint her." Portia sighed again. "But you were right. It's a stupid brooch."

"With the number of homes their family own, it's probably just somewhere else," Aubrey tried to soothe her. "So what now?"

"Nick is supposed to come by in a couple of hours to pick up the brooch. I'll call him."

"You do that." Aubrey walked out to the hallway, a hushed yet welcome enclave from the stuffiness of the bedroom. She looked at the doors among the length of the corridor and idly wondered which one was Laurence's. Maybe she'd ask Portia later.

Portia joined her shortly. "He didn't even know what I was talking about! And Athena's still not answering."

"I'll call Laurence," Aubrey offered. She dialed and pressed the phone to her ear.

One ring.

Two rings.

She could swear she heard the ringing from her other ear too – a tinny echo that sounded less electronic than the one her phone emanated. She pulled the phone away. Next to her, Portia was frowning.

"Did you hear that?"

A muffled thud followed her question, and then, laughter. It was distant, but both of them heard it quite clearly. Aubrey looked at her phone. The call had been dropped.

"It's probably nothing," Portia said. But Aubrey was already moving towards the source of the sound: the bedroom at the furthermost end of the hallway, its door slightly ajar, allowing the light inside to spill out to the corridor.

"Bree!" Portia whispered urgently, gripping Aubrey's wrist. Her face was uncharacteristically pale. Aubrey merely shook her off, as though in a trance, and kept moving.

The door was only a couple of steps away. More sounds floated past them. A slow, rhythmic knocking. Voices.

Portia rounded on her, blocking the narrow gap, eyes wide with fear as she shook her head. And then, another sound: a stretched, ardent groan that Aubrey finally recognized all too well. But the phrasing is off, the cadence is wrong; her name had been replaced with something far more vulgar.

_A-ra-bel-la._

Something inside her splintered, blasting all the air out of her lungs. Portia stepped aside. Aubrey pushed the door open with trembling fingers.

* * *

The roar of fucking bodies assaulted Aubrey's senses all at once.

She had a faint suspicion of what lay beyond the door, but nothing could have ever prepared her for the unbearable heat, the immense brightness flooding the room. The steamy smell of sex. Her eyes adjusted to the sudden light, and she wished they hadn't.

The naked figures on the cavernous bed did not hear her come in. So absorbed were they with each other, pounding with a dizzying speed Aubrey never thought possible, and only when Arabella pulled herself up by the man's neck did she notice they were not alone. Her mouth formed an O shape as she stared in shock.

Noticing her distraction, the man turned around.

_Laurence._


	8. Aubrey, Act II

**Aubrey**

As soon as you start thinking about the beginning, it's the end.

Aubrey couldn't remember where she read that, but the realization ultimately brought her back to her senses. Unfortunately it also came with crippling self-contempt. The more she turned it over in her mind the more it became clear this devastation was her own undoing; that catching her fiancé in bed with another woman was a fucked-up cliché she already saw coming a mile away, but chose to ignore.

_How could I have been so stupid?_

"Emotions," she murmured vacantly to Chloe, as they watched her phone vibrating on top of Aubrey's sheets for the umpteenth time. "They are not your guide. The guide is your mind."

Chloe, who had navigated said emotions over the past week with admirable sympathy, only jerked her head towards her phone. "You'll have to answer that someday."

"If you are guided by your emotions and use your mind only to rationalize or justify them somehow, then you are acting immorally – you condemn yourself to failure, to misery…"

"You are quoting Ayn Rand and it scares me."

"She was right. Acting on your emotions will achieve nothing but your own destruction."

"She was also a nasty old chauvinist who publicly admired a serial killer…but sure, she sounds like a real example of rationality."

"All rationality flies out the window when your fiancé cheats on you with his cousin."

Chloe shook her head and looped an arm around her. "I liked it better when you were just crying," she sighed gloomily.

And just like that, Aubrey's chest was tightening again.

"You can't just replace grief with anger, Bree. I know what you're doing. It's unhealthy."

Aubrey only shrugged.

"Does he still come by your office building?" Chloe asked.

"I don't know."

"Maybe you should consider talking to him. Get it over with."

"No. There is no explanation for what he did. Nothing."

"I agree. But I know you'll keep wondering where it all went wrong, and you'll keep thinking you had something to do with it. You didn't," Chloe stressed firmly. "But maybe you have to hear him actually say it. It might give you some sort of peace. Or at least, a chance to punch him in the penis."

"I don't want anything to do with him." Aubrey looked down her hands; they had balled into fists. "And it's incredibly stupid of him not to get the hint."

Chloe stuffed the phone under the couch cushions and started kneading Aubrey's shoulders.

"What would he even say? 'Sorry I fucked my cousin, please don't tell anybody'?"

"Well, are you going to tell anybody?"

She had thought about it. All week she was preoccupied by the twisted clusterfuck that was Laurence and Arabella. One night she even had the strongest desire to go out and see Laurence. She wanted to fight, to point out all his lies, to make him break down the way he was doing to her now. She knew just the right words to say, too. _I knew it was happening_._ I told you never to lie. You're a fucking coward. Did you get a kick out of imagining her every time you were balls-deep inside me? Which of us was the better lay? Here's a fun mind exercise: what would happen if I tell everyone? _

She was so drunk that night that she was halfway out the door when she realized what she was doing. She had to lock herself in the bathroom after that. When she came to the next morning she was shivering in the tub, disgusted and a little afraid of herself.

"Don't do that," Chloe cautioned, the silence having gone on too long.

"I wasn't going to."

"But you've thought about it."

"Of course I've thought about it, Chloe, I've cried about it all week." Aubrey reached for the remote instead, turning on the TV. "But I'm not going to do that. That's just fucked up."

"Good." Chloe gave her shoulder one last squeeze. "So, what now?"

"I don't know. Can we please just start drinking?"

* * *

Her chest hurt so much these days. The truth was her entire world was shaken. She'd look at people at work or in the street, going about their daily business like sheep, and she'd give anything to feel that normal again.

She didn't want closure. She didn't want pleasant things to remember. If anything, she wanted to remember how much this hurt, so she'd never make the same mistake again.

* * *

When it was Portia who started appearing outside the law offices of Bristol and Cahill, Aubrey couldn't ignore her.

"I miss you," Portia said, as they huddled in the Starbucks across the street. "I know things are bad, but I hope you'd still hang out with me and Will sometime."

"I don't know." And then, before she could stop herself, "How's Laurence?"

Portia shook her head. "I haven't talked to him since…since that day. But Will visited him last week. He said he has never seen Laurence that decrepit…he seems to be doing terribly."

Aubrey looked out the window, not really seeing anything. How cute. Laurence's fashion choices were suffering. How tame compared to her past two weeks, those days when she could barely get out of bed, those hours she cried herself to sleep.

By the time Portia broke the silence, her coffee had gone cold.

"Talk to me, Bree."

"We are talking."

"I mean tell me how you're holding up. How I can help."

"I don't know." It had recently become Aubrey's go-to answer for everything. "Did you know about Laurence and Arabella?"

"No. Not recently. Believe me, I was just as surprised that day."

"But you knew this happened before."

Portia nodded, not looking at Aubrey.

"It did, when we were at Dalton." She began stirring her tea. "I should've said something, that day you asked. I should've just told you. Laurence and Arry were always too close…bordering on inappropriate. But accusing your childhood best friend of having an incestuous affair was not a conversation any of us wanted to have…"

"So what, you and Will just ignored it?"

Portia flinched. "If you must know, we brought it up every time Arry was in town. Laurence always brushed us off. Said he knew what he was doing. Arry has this strange influence on him, and eventually there was nothing more we could do.

"We hoped he'd tire of the whole thing when he left for Harvard…and he did, for a while. You two got engaged, he was happy, he was really making an effort. So I thought that was the end of it. He was going to introduce you to Aunt Helena, for God's sake. But then you started asking about Arry…"

"Why did you lie?"

"Because I really believed Laurence and Arabella wouldn't happen again." Portia threw up her hands. "You've become one of my best friends, Bree. I didn't want to say anything that would lead to you and Laurence fighting or something, okay? So I chose to believe Laurence loved you, that the past didn't matter –"

"You could have saved me a lot of trouble that day."

"I'm sorry." Portia looked up, eyes glazed with tears. "I still think Laurence is serious about you, Bree. He just lost his way. It was hardly his fault. Blame it on Arry. She just wouldn't leave him alone."

"Don't be stupid, Portia." Aubrey's voice was hard. "It was both of them."

* * *

When they stepped out into the freezing January afternoon, Portia embraced her.

"Bree, please," she said into Aubrey's shoulder. "Don't shut me out."

Aubrey broke free from her grasp. "I couldn't be more grateful you called Chloe that day," she said, maintaining her businesslike tone. "But I can't be around you right now."

* * *

On the fourth week Laurence started hounding her Brooklyn apartment. Aubrey arrived home one day to find him sitting on the stoop. He was decrepit, as Portia had described: his eyes were sunken, his skin was pallid, and the stubble on his chin had developed to a full beard.

The last time he waited like that was at their old apartment in Boston. He had his own key but on Fridays he never let himself in. He sat on the stoop until she came home from her six pm class, and the moment she saw him was always the moment her weekend officially started.

One time he turned up dressed in Richard Gere's iconic Armani coat from _American Gigolo_. Aren't you getting enough attention just being yourself? she joked. It was true: Harvard preppies passing the street waved and lusted after her handsome all-American boyfriend all the time. But she never felt jealous. Laurence used to only have eyes for her. You're the only girl for me, he used to say. I can't wait to marry you, he used to say.

She promptly hailed a cab and asked for the nearest hotel, thankfully before he spotted her. She should change her number. She should move to a new apartment. She should return the engagement ring sitting on her finger. She dug her nails into palms, forcing back tears.

She was going insane.

* * *

She pocketed the ring and hit up the hotel bar, next day's work be damned. A man offered to buy her a drink. He was fairly attractive, had nice blue eyes, and wore a sharp suit her sartorial ex-fiancé would wear.

It might explain why she stood in a different hotel room four gin and tonics later, while another man unzipped her dress. His cologne wasn't Dior and he tasted of cigarettes. When he indelicately palmed her left breast Aubrey could no longer pretend he was someone else. Her control shattered. She began to cry.

The man was confused, and then, alarmed.

"What did I do?"

She shook her head, unable to speak. He watched her for a while and warily handed back her clothes.

"I'm sorry," he offered nervously a half-hour later as he escorted her to the elevators. "You seemed really into it when we were at the bar…just…sorry."

"It wasn't your fault." Aubrey fought to maintain her composure; she had already imposed too much on this stranger's patience. "I changed my mind. I've just ended things with someone..."

He nodded, more out of relief than actual sympathy. Aubrey did not mind. His reaction was already kinder than what she deserved.

For some reason, right before the elevator doors closed, he pressed a half-empty pack of Dunhills in her hand.

* * *

Something happened to Aubrey that night. She started smoking again.

She had picked up the vice post-Barden graduation, and it continued way into her second year in law school. It was nothing serious or consuming. She used to keep the same pack of American Spirit for months, only reaching for it during her most stressful moments.

Laurence, however, hated it. Smoking was the one thing he begged her to stop doing when she first agreed to move in with him. After she packed her possessions in a borrowed car, she smoked her last cigarette by the curb and thought she was finally doing okay for the first time in a long while.

Something went very wrong along the way. In the present she was in a hotel balcony, chain-smoking some guy's pity cigarettes while fiddling with an engagement ring that no longer held promise. She put it on and was struck at how perfectly it fit in her hand. Laurence had never bought her jewelry before, knowing she wasn't fond of them. She didn't own any rings and the only jewelry she ever kept was a pair of diamond earrings from her late mother. How he guessed the exact ring size, she would never know.

* * *

As if she wasn't furious enough, Laurence stopped coming.

She had gotten so used to his distant presence that he had become part of her routine. Or maybe she had never really removed him. She still saw him as often as she did when they were together, only these days she always made sure she saw him first, and she could no longer strut towards him in that certain way she knew drives him mad, because she had to walk away. And every time she did it gutted her more than the last.

* * *

"I can forgive him."

They were at Chloe's house, now in more inebriated circumstances than the last time Aubrey visited. Chloe looked like she wanted to smash the bottle of tequila onto Aubrey's head.

"You're kidding."

"I can live with what he did."

"No. You're stupid drunk and looking for a booty call."

"I'm not. I…may have been wrong."

Chloe slumped back on the couch. "Oh, Bree."

"You always tell me I'm too proud. I should change that."

"Yes, but not with Laurence! You of all people _saw _what he did! Do not go back to that guy. Nothing good will come out of it."

"You don't think I know that?" Aubrey heard her own voice break, and that feeling she had coldly refused to recognize for so long burst forth as an exasperated sob. She was so angry with him. At the ease with which he tore everything down. And still she missed him.

She yanked away before Chloe could touch her arm. She was having none of her sympathy. The last month had drained her, and she was tired of this, the tears, the days of inaction, the fear that she might never be the same.

Chloe looked hurt, but her tone was firm when she spoke again. "Laurence is far from perfect, Bree. He's replaceable."

Her response only enraged Aubrey. "This is exactly what I'm trying to tell you – he's not! And you won't understand. Because you've never lost the best you've ever had."

Chloe glared at her. "Then I completely understand," she retorted.

"Oh, please. You're the dumper in every relationship you've –"

Chloe reached for the stack of magazines under the coffee table. She fished one out and tossed it in Aubrey's lap. It was an issue of _Vanity Fair._

She was confused until she recognized the strong features of the woman in the cover.

"Take it from me, Bree," Chloe said harshly. "If I was able to replace two-time Grammy award winner Beca Mitchell, you can damn well replace anybody."

* * *

Six years ago, Aubrey was a wreck. So was Chloe. The summer they graduated college was the worst one they'd ever weathered together. Aubrey finally told her father to fuck off. Not long after that, Chloe came home devastated from Beca's send-off at the airport.

It was an event Aubrey skipped, because it couldn't be better than the one she privately had with Beca the previous night. _I thought if I told her she'd be willing to at least try, _Chloe sobbed in her arms. Aubrey could only sigh. Chloe was constantly in Beca's orbit during the one year she spent at Barden, but sometimes it was like the redhead never really knew her at all.

Chloe bought the tickets to Bangkok months ago. The original plan was to spend two luxurious weeks in Phi Phi, hit up a full moon party, unplug and relax. Aubrey initially agreed to it because of Chloe's pitch: just two American girls on a luxurious beach holiday. But come summer Aubrey had become a completely different person. She was finally free to make her own decisions. It felt like she ought to do something grand with that.

She pooled together their money and decided they could stay a month if they backpacked across the country instead. Chloe, who had been to Thailand twice before and enjoyed it, eagerly agreed.

* * *

Six years ago, Aubrey first bought cigarettes in Khao San Road. She figured they were the closest thing she could have to a well-rolled joint, and they were at least a less-cancerous way of coping than Chloe's knockoff bottle of whiskey.

Chloe eyed the pack of Marlboro, baffled. "Since when do you smoke?"

"Give me a break, Chloe. I have an estranged dad pass."

"I'm not telling you to stop. I'm just surprised you're not worried it has germs, or it would ruin your temple body or something..."

Two months ago Aubrey would have been revolted at the slightest whiff of cigarette smoke. Now it was all she could think about. "Let it. 'I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul'."

"Where did you even learn how to smoke?"

"It's not rocket science. Besides, it couldn't be more deadly than," Aubrey frowned as she read the bottle on Chloe's hand, "'Johnnie Wookie'."

* * *

From then on their days in Thailand all just ran together. Chloe got a stomach bug in Chiang Mai. Aubrey ran out of barf bags midway south. They shared tiny beds in hostels, hung laundry outside their windows, rode so many buses and trains. But all the unpleasant experiences were eclipsed by the great ones. They also drove scooters through lush green valleys in Mai Hong Son, swam in pristine beaches, and ate delicious street food for a mere trifle. At Pai – a surprisingly-hippy mountain town – she shared a German boy's joint and realized it wasn't the kind of high she was after.

"She kissed me, you know."

They were drunk at a hut in Koh Tao. By then Chloe had switched to Saeng Som; the local rum tasted like nail polish and gave her vicious hangovers. Aubrey wasn't faring any better. Her voice had developed a gravelly edge from smoking.

They were punishing themselves with excess. If this was what freedom was supposed to be, it was exhausting. Overrated, even.

"She kissed me," Chloe repeated.

"I heard," she replied curtly. "When?"

"On her going-away party. She later said it meant nothing…we were on ecstasy, after all."

Aubrey could only nod, her throat thick. She really should have known better than to be alone with Beca that night. She particularly despised herself whenever Chloe brought her up like this, always with self-lacerating regret.

It was all Beca's fault. She and her phony sympathy. Sitting too close. Inviting her to smoke. Her skin felt hot every time Beca's fingers brushed hers. _I would have taken the time to make you happy. _The way Beca said it, the way she looked at Aubrey, eyes dark and soft in the dim light.

Beca had a habit of pushing back her hair and all night Aubrey's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the tipped chin, the decadent bronze hair. She wondered how they would feel in her hand.

She acted on it as soon as she thought it. Then there was a split second when she didn't know what to do next, and Beca's lips were half-parted in surprise, and that was all it took for Aubrey to kiss her. But the tiniest gap between them still felt too much. She wanted Beca's weight on her. She spurred Beca on with a frantic nip of her teeth; Beca responded by snagging possessive fingers into her hair. This time biting Beca's swollen lip was a complete accident, but the sudden taste of metal passed and dissolved between them as soon it appeared.

And then the moment of complete submission was ending. Beca's sigh against her cheek when she let go had trapped Aubrey in an aching mid-exhale since.

"I put myself out there and all she said was she wanted to spare me from all that mess," Chloe slurred, her telltale eyes brimming. "She called it a 'mess', Bree. That connection we had…she reduced it to a 'mess'. Like it was just a childish crush. Like I wasn't in love with her for a whole fucking year."

"Can you blame her?"

Chloe blinked at her.

"What?"

"Chloe, you were dating another guy the whole time you say you loved her. You constantly led her on when it was clear you were unavailable. Can you imagine how terrible Beca must have felt every time you were all over her? Even worse, how she felt every time you went back to Tom anyway?"

"You of all people are supposed to be on my side," Chloe snapped, sobered by anger.

"I am on your side. But I'm not going to delude you by saying you did everything right, either. Beca wanted you. But you couldn't make up your mind between her and whatever you were doing with Tom. So you don't get to blame her for not reciprocating, Chloe. This is on you."

Chloe turned away, too furious to say anything else. She knew Aubrey was right. But things had always been too easy for the redhead: parents loved her, people adored her, plans fell off her but she would always get what she wanted. Life always somehow worked out.

Beca was the first serious thing she had lost. And for some reason, Aubrey felt it was up to her to impress how – and just how _much_ – Chloe fucked it up. Too bad Aubrey had to do it while they were sharing a narrow straw mat. She crawled under the mosquito net, ignoring her best friend's glare, and fell asleep.

Sometime later, a drunker Chloe was shaking her awake.

"She was wonderful."

"What?" Aubrey mumbled, disoriented.

"Beca," Chloe whispered. "Kissing. It was rough…then it was precious."

_I know, _she almost responded.

"It's a real shame, you know?"

Aubrey sat up. Chloe curled against her chest, a smooth movement practiced out of so many years of friendship. "You're spiraling, Chloe," she said as gently as she could.

"I just…never thought of it that way until now. That we could have had a chance if I wasn't so _immature_. What is wrong with me?"

Despite being half-asleep Aubrey managed to roll her eyes. "Don't be dramatic. You're talking about Beca Mitchell."

"I'm serious. What if I never come across anything like her again?"

"You will." Aubrey absentmindedly scratched Chloe's scalp, watching the redhead's eyes close. "You just have to wait long enough."

* * *

_Present_

Chloe's copy of _Vanity Fair _was well-worn. While the redhead slept beside her Aubrey flicked through the contents. She ran her eyes over the sphinx-like face, that familiar hint of a smirk.

Beca taught her how to smoke.

Looking back, she shouldn't have been surprised. Beca's recklessness used to daunt and charm her in equal measure. What rebelliousness. What arrogance. How dare this insolent usurper just prance in her auditorium and defy decades of Bella tradition? Aubrey already had the machinery to victory well-planned in minute detail. Beca was ruining it. She had to be put in her place.

But Beca got to her. Beca found the exact words that got under her skin. And even when Aubrey came around and accepted that the Bellas had to change, she was still getting to her. Aubrey never noticed when it started, but she leaped from pretending Beca doesn't exist to noticing every little detail about her, and she found it more cumbersome than if they just continued fighting. Beca read Henry Miller and listened to Jimi Hendrix. She had a re-interpretation of _Nobody Does It Better _that Aubrey found intriguing. And she always projected casual disinterest, no matter how many times she drove Fat Amy home or scared off fratboys who groped Stacie. More than once Aubrey found herself listening to Beca's sarcastic one-liners and thinking, with a little wistfulness: _I'd never be bored._

She flung the magazine to the nearest drawer and pushed it shut, not even bothering to read the accompanying article. She had no interest in knowing Beca Mitchell. She had never even told Laurence about that part of her life. What was there to tell? He cared very little about her Bella days. He would never understand why it felt so significant. She wasn't even sure she could explain why.

"Chloe?"

Chloe was usually a sound sleeper, but this time she got a response. "Mm?"

"When exactly did you move on from Beca?"

"UPenn," she mumbled. "More fish in the sea."

And she was asleep again.

* * *

February was an endless cycle of slush-filled sidewalks. It had been a long day at work; Aubrey had to stay two hours past her usual. By the time she got out of the building the sidewalk was buzzing with commuters flagging down cabs. Good luck getting one on a Friday night, she thought.

She watched the heavy sky and started power-walking to the subway station, dreading the 5 train home. The first drops of rain fell on her coat. Shit. She left her umbrella at the office.

She'd definitely head straight for the merlot when she got home. She longed to strip off her miserable shoes and lie back on the couch. Dinner would have to be more wine. She'd fall asleep reading in bed.

Someone then placed a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, spinning around abruptly. The man pulled back and she recognized the camel Armani coat.

She had avoided Laurence for forty-two days. Yet she was powerless to stop him as he gently steered her under the nearest awning. He even had the audacity to pull this _American Gigolo _stunt again. The last time he wore that coat, they missed a dinner reservation doing something else.

She was deeply aware of the scent of his aftershave; she longed to press herself into him. He knew her. He knew what this would do to her.

"Hey," he murmured, smiling down at her with relief. He looked just as tired as Aubrey felt. He pulled her into his arms, and she let herself fall. She couldn't erase what she wanted.

They didn't fit together the way she expected they would. Aubrey drew back, confused. He was holding something inside his coat.

He presented it to her with a little flourish: a bouquet of tulips. And just like that, all her bittersweet longing disappeared.

* * *

Three years. Three years together, and he never remembered she was allergic to flowers.

Something snapped inside her. Before she knew it she was slapping the bouquet into the ground, the whole bunch crash-landing in a puddle. The splatter made Laurence jump back. But he wasn't getting away with this. She descended upon him. A loud _crack_ made passerby stop and glance at them. The next moment her palm was smarting, and he was cradling his cheek.

"This is the last time I am going to hear from you. Or see you," she hissed. "Pull this shit again, and I will tell everyone about you and Arabella."

She had always known Laurence was afraid of her. Yet she felt little satisfaction from his dumbfounded reaction as she walked away.

* * *

She walked further than she should have, until she ended up in the Lower East Side. She was freezing. She picked the first bar that wasn't teeming with drunken students, took comfort in the elegant sign out front reading _Clandestino_, and entered.

The bar was surprisingly acceptable. It was more like a cozy cocktail lounge than the underground thumping club she thought it would be. Even better, it was comfortably crowded with people her age.

She sat at the furthermost side of the bar and asked for a Tanqueray and tonic. And then another.

* * *

"All right, love?"

Aubrey jerked up. A blonde guy in a gray shirt just shook her awake. Her sudden movements made her head spin; she clapped a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to take deep breaths through her nose.

"She lives," the guy said to the burly bartender, who was also watching her. "Think she'll barf, though. Get the bucket…"

The other guy sighed, but Aubrey quickly shook her head no. She had embarrassed herself enough. She slid off her seat, intent on standing – and the next moment, she was falling forward. Blonde Guy caught her elbow at the last minute.

"Miss," the bartender addressed Aubrey, in a soft, firm voice. "You're going home. Luke's getting you an Uber."

"I can manage," she slurred, sounding barely more coherent than she felt.

"Yeah, yeah, but we're still calling you a cab. That's how we do things at the bar. Best way we can ensure your safety."

Her stomach lurched so violently it almost propelled her forward. Saliva was pooling in her mouth. It always did whenever she was about to – goddammit, she wasn't going to puke here. She had already lost enough control for one day.

"…don't worry 'bout Luke, he's a regular. I gotta warn you though, he's a Brit –"

"Piss off, Eddie," Blonde Guy told the bartender good-naturedly. "Get the bucket now, there's a good chap."

And then he was ushering her into a booth, which was strange, because she hardly recalled walking. She hardly recalled anything. Some stranger was trying to take care of her. This was unacceptable.

She tried rising, clamping her mouth shut at the wave of nausea that followed. She had almost succeeded until her knee banged painfully against the table. "Fuck!"

Blonde Guy face-palmed and went to help her up. "Sod it. Your ride's ten minutes away, but we have to wait on the curb. Come on. Mind the table…"

"Don't touch me!"

"Alright." Gray Shirt stepped back, raising his hands. "Look, I'm just trying to take you home."

"I don't trust you," she slurred, attempting to push past him.

He stood his ground, huffing exasperatedly. "Fair enough. You need proof I'm not some slimy tosser." He pressed something in her palm. A calling card. "I'm Luke. I'm usually here Thursdays. What's your name?"

"Aubrey."

"Okay, Annie. You got my workplace and contact number and everything else you need if you ever want to sue me. Not that you'd have to," he added quickly. "Now can we go?"

* * *

Aubrey woke up at lunchtime with a massive headache. She buried her head under the sheets for another good hour, too dizzy to move, willing herself to die rather than suffer through the entire fucking nightmare that was her hangover.

When she finally forced herself off her bed, it was late afternoon. Chloe left her eight missed calls and two messages. The first one read _guess who came to see me! _The second was this morning, almost fourteen hours later: _Call me when you can. _The redhead's terseness was unusual, so Aubrey immediately dialed her, succeeding on her third try despite the letters jumbling together.

"Is everything okay?" she croaked out.

"I think so." Chloe sounded breathless. "You weren't picking up since last night, where were you?"

"Drinking," Aubrey said shortly; thinking about Laurence was already giving her a gag reflex. "You sound off. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm just – I'm just freaking out, I guess."

"Chloe. What is it?"

Chloe's next sound was a long, loud exhale.

"I kissed someone else."

* * *

**Notes.**

I'm really missing Beca's perspective, so we're going back to that.

Next chapter: How about we finally let them meet?


End file.
